


Enchantment Passing Through

by danrdarrenc



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Societal master/slave relationship, alternating povs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-22 23:01:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 39,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23001796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danrdarrenc/pseuds/danrdarrenc
Summary: A year after Lily and James were murdered, Lord Voldemort was reborn, seizing control of the Wizarding World. Albus Dumbledore hid Harry Potter in disguise away with a Muggle family called the Grangers and trained him alongside their daughter, Hermione, in secret. Twenty years later, Draco Malfoy captures the two Granger children, forcing them into slavery in Malfoy Manor.But what happens when Draco starts growing close with the Granger son? The Wizarding World may never be the same.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Ron Weasley/Hermione Granger (background mentions)
Kudos: 40





	Enchantment Passing Through

**Author's Note:**

> This is loosely based on the Elton John musical "Aida". 
> 
> The end may seem a bit familiar as I've hijacked verbatim or paraphrased Deathly Hallows. ;)

Harry paced the floor of their corner of the dungeon. Hermione watched him from where she sat on the floor with her head in her hands. The other prisoners – Muggles, presumably, as their captors assumed they were too – were huddled in various areas of the dungeon, clinging desperately to those of their families who had made it to the Manor alive.

“I can’t believe we got Hunted,” Harry said, his voice low. He stared at the angry red marks on his wrists where the Shackling spell bound him to the dungeon.

“We knew it would happen sooner or later,” Hermione said, picking her head up, her voice equally low.

“How did they even find us? We were supposed to be _Fidelius_ ed.” Harry’s voice dropped to a whisper, to minimize their chance of being overheard.

“Dumbledore was our Secret Keeper,” Hermione whispered. “The only way they could have found us is if…” She trailed off the truth clear.

Dumbledore was dead.

“Your Glamour’s still on, though,” Hermione noted. Although she had always been able to see through to his true face, Harry knew Hermione’s supposition must have been true since none of the Death Eaters had seen him as anything other than a brown-haired, brown-eyed Granger.

Harry stopped in his tracks. He hadn’t even considered that the Glamour might vanish upon Dumbledore’s death. It seemed that it hadn’t. Harry sighed and settled on the floor next to Hermione. “Are you alright?”

“None of their spells hit me,” was Hermione’s answer.

“That’s not what I meant,” Harry said gently. “Mum and Dad are dead.”

Hermione grimaced. “I’ll be okay. You?”

“Not the first set of parents I’ve lost,” Harry deadpanned.

Tears swam at the corners of Hermione’s eyes. Harry wrapped an arm around her back, and she dropped her head onto his shoulder. “We’re gonna be okay,” Harry assured quietly. “This is what we’ve been training for our whole lives.”

“To be prisoners of the Malfoys? The top lieutenants of You-Know-Who?”

Harry shrugged, his lips quirking up in the ghost of a smile. “Well, not exactly. But you know. You really think I can do this?”

Hermione nodded. “Dumbledore believed in us. In _you_.”

Harry sighed heavily. “It seemed so easy from the comfort of our house. Being here,” Harry gestured to their general surroundings. “It seems like a tall task now.”

Before Hermione could respond there was a loud rap on the door, followed quickly by the click of heels on the concrete floor. Ten seconds later, a thin, dark-haired young woman dressed in a black leather dress that appeared to be painted on came into view in front of the bars of their cell.

“Muggles,” the woman sneered with the Death Eater air of superiority, her eyes raking slowly and deliberately over the group. “Female scum. Stand up and form a line where I can see all of you.” When no one made to move, the woman commanded. “Now!”

Off Harry’s squeeze of her shoulders, Hermione stood up and walked, head high, to stand opposite the woman. None of the other woman moved, terrified into silence and paralysis.

“Well, well,” the woman clucked, a jeer on her face. “What a brave piece of scum you are. What’s your name, Muggle?”

“Hermione Granger,” Hermione answered, boldly staring the woman in the eyes.

“You’ll do, I suppose,” the woman said.

“For what?” Hermione asked brazenly.

The woman’s eyebrows shot up and her eyes widened, obviously surprised at the back talk. Then she smiled wickedly. “To be my new plaything, of course.”

Hermione stiffened slightly but said, “I’m not going anywhere without my brother.”

“Are you _bargaining_ with me, Muggle? Do you know who I am?”

“Pansy Parkinson. Betrothed to Draco Malfoy, son of the Head of the Muggle Hunting Squad,” Hermione answered promptly.

Pansy cocked an eyebrow. “I see my reputation precedes me. And yet you bargain with me?”

Hermione said nothing, challenging.

They stared at each other for a long minute, appraising each other.

Eventually, Pansy said slowly, “Alright. Which one’s your brother?”

Harry jumped up to stand next to Hermione. “I am.”

“What’s your name, scum?”

“John Granger.”

Pansy eyed him then said, “Fine. We’ll throw you in the kitchens. Let the house-elves deal with you.”

She snapped her fingers and a Death Eater guard opened the cell. Harry and Hermione were yanked out of their cell in the same moment the Shackling spells on them were modified to allow them out of the dungeons.

“Let’s go,” Pansy barked on the turn of her heel.

Stealing a glance at each other, they had no choice but to follow.

* * *

Draco never tired of the view of the Wiltshire plains, the smell of the country. He especially loved it after a long day of Muggle hunting. Although not random, Muggle hunting was oftentimes chaotic, not going quite as he planned. But Draco liked it best that way; the adrenaline rush he got whenever Muggles tried to run, instead of cowing immediately to the Death Eaters’ wands, only served to spur him on, make him feel more powerful than he already was.

Today’s hunt had started routine, like any other: carefully planned, carefully executed, the Muggles targeted for that day captured with little to no effort expended. But then the Grangers had fought back. Idiot fools. They had tried to run, and Draco had let them – as a head start. See, Muggles were stupid that way. They thought they could outrun wizards. They thought they could _kill_ wizards. With _guns._ The Grangers weren’t the first Muggles who had tried to shoot them with their feeble Muggle machinery. But they had been the most persistent. They’d even thrown some knives. Draco and his Hunters had easily deflected the bullets and sharp points with quick flicks of their wands, throwing up _Protego_ s and firing other varieties of spells at the Muggles. There had a been a chase through the empty streets of London, populated only by the Death Eaters stationed strategically along the streets to ensure the designated Blood Traitors stayed in their places in shops and cafés and did not cause trouble. But Muggles tire easily, without the aid of Stamina spells, and Draco and his entourage had tripped them up with Trip Jinxes and low-level Stunning spells. The parents had perished in the fight, the daughter and son captured at last.

Now, standing on the hill overlooking Malfoy Manor, Draco breathed in the crisp early March evening air, a hint of spring on the wind. As he surveyed the family lands that would one day be his, a bell rang from the direction of the Manor, signaling supper. Magically modified, the bell called to the residents and guests of the Manor wherever they may be on the grounds. Undignified as it was to be late for meals, Draco took long strides towards the Manor, passing through the wards with a silent wave of his wand.

“How was the Hunt today, Draco?” Lucius Malfoy drawled, bringing his glass of expensive red wine to his lips, as Draco slipped into his chair at the dining room table. “The Scum didn’t give you any trouble, I hope?”

“No more than usual, Father,” Draco responded, gracefully sliding a piece of pheasant – tonight’s main course courtesy of the house-elves – off of his fork. “Had a bit of a chase through London, allowed a particularly feisty Muggle family to think they might get away. But we got them in the end.” Draco flashed his father a dazzling, proud smile.

Lucius smirked back. 

“Draco.” Narcissa’s sharp voice cut like a knife across the table.

“Mother,” Draco addressed with a fond smile.

“Miss Parkinson and I will be discussing wedding plans after supper. If you would be so kind as to join us?”

“We are to be married at the end of year, Mother. Surely, you can call my betrothed Pansy?” Draco levelled her with a stare, but there was no heat behind it.

Narcissa lifted her chin in that haughty way that those of the Black line so often did. Her lips quirked up in the echo of a smile. “I’ll consider it.”

Draco grinned again. Although his marriage to Pansy was one of status and stratagem, Draco loved Pansy as fiercely as he would have his own sister, and preferred his parents treat her as such. “Thank you, Mother. And yes. I would be glad to join you for wedding planning.”

“Good lad,” Lucius said, raising his glass to Draco.

“Where is Pansy, by the way?” Draco asked, realizing she wasn’t eating with them.

“In the dungeons, scoping out your new conquests,” Narcissa answered. “I believe she would like a new chamber slave to command.”

“She does love being commanding,” Draco responded fondly.

“Who loves being commanding?” a sharp voice said from behind them.

Draco turned his head, a crooked smile on his face. “You, darling.”

Pansy shot him a smirk. “You say the sweetest things to me, Draco.” She sauntered over to the table, dropping a kiss to Draco’s cheek, and taking the seat next to him.

“Did you find a new plaything, darling?” Draco asked.

“I did,” Pansy purred. “That Granger bitch you brought in today. Fiesty. She’ll be fun to break in.” Pansy gave a wicked grin.

+++++++++

“Spells are looking sharp as ever,” Lucius said from the doorway of the training room where Draco was taking target practice – on dummies today. The new Muggle prisoners would be tomorrow’s fun.

“Thank you, Father,” Draco said, puffing slightly at the praise, and slipping his wand back into his trousers.

“You made a good Snatch yesterday. Thirty Muggles in one Hunt. The Dark Lord is pleased.”

“Is He so pleased that He sent you to deliver his message?” Draco snapped. For three years, Draco had been hunting Muggles with an excellent track record, and still the Dark Lord’s praise came through his father, rather than direct from the Dark Lord. It rankled Draco, made him feel he wasn’t as favored with the Dark Lord as he hoped, or wanted to be.

Lucius crossed the room in three swift strides. “Draco, the Dark Lord _is_ pleased with you. I won’t be Head of the Squad forever. Every Snatch you make that pleases Him is another step climbed on your way towards Head of the Squad and beyond. Maybe even towards Second-in-Command after your Aunt Bella.”

“You really think?” Draco asked, unsure, but the prospect excited him.

“I do, Draco. I do. You are a wonderful Death Eater and the Dark Lord recognizes that. Keep doing what you are doing and, for right now, focus on your wedding. Another step easily climbed.”

Draco nodded, a small smile on his lips despite his furrowed brows.

Lucius patted his arm and stalked off, leaving Draco to his target practice and his thoughts.

* * *

After a ten-minute walk along a maze of hallways with their Death Eater guards – Pansy Parkinson had left them almost immediately – Harry was shoved unceremoniously through a door without a chance to say goodbye to Hermione. He stumbled over the saddle and only by the grace of bumping into the shoulder of someone did he not fall on the floor flat on his face.

“S – sorry,” the person said.

“It’s alright,” Harry said. “I’m John.” Harry held his hand out.

The young man – he appeared to be same age as Harry – had a shock of red hair, though it seemed dulled by lack of washing and thinned from malnutrition. The freckles on his face stood out starkly on his pale, sallow face.

“I’m Ron,” Ron said, shaking Harry’s hand. Then, “Do I know you?” He gave Harry a curious look.

Harry shook his head, though his heart pounded for fear his Glamour was starting to fade now that its caster was dead. “No. I’m a kitchen slave like you, though. So, I expect we’ll know each other very well soon.”

Ron continued to look at him curiously for another long few seconds then he gave Harry a lopsided smile. “Yeah. ‘Spect we will. The house-elves are busy serving the Malfoys, why don’t I show you around?”

Harry smiled, grateful that he would have this friendly face to live and work with. It made his predicament slightly more bearable. He thought that in another life, they might even have had the chance to be friends. “That’d be great. Thanks.”

* * *

Target practice – whether on dummies or human slaves – always left Draco with an insatiable appetite. As there were still three hours until supper, Draco wended his way through the Manor to the kitchens. He could have summoned an elf or kitchen slave to serve him in the dining room but mid-meal meals he more often than not preferred to take in the kitchens themselves. As with Hunting, Draco liked the chaos of the kitchens, the elves and human slaves bustling about busily, preparing meals and making sure stocks were always complete.

He pushed open the door of the kitchen and welcomed the cacophony of cabinets banging open and closed, pots clanging, stoves clicking on, and elves squeaking orders to each other and their human counterparts, as preparations for supper began.

“Master Draco,” an elf squeaked at his feet.

Draco looked down and found Dobby, his personal elf, in a deep bow.

“Up, Dobby,” Draco commanded. The elf straightened immediately but his eyes remained on the ground. “Make me some fish and chips.” It was a decidedly Muggle delicacy, but Dobby would never tell, and Draco was the only one of the family who ever came down to the kitchens so he didn’t fear anyone would discover his taste for Muggle foods.

“Yes, Master,” Dobby squeaked, bowed low again, and hurried off.

Draco walked further into the kitchen, observing. None of the other elves seemed to have noticed his presence or else were ignoring him. That was fine. He didn’t mind. In fact, he preferred it that way. Part of the reason he liked coming down here was to get away. He loved his job, loved his position in the Dark Lord’s world but sometimes, especially when he made a particularly good Hunt and received no commendations from the Dark Lord beyond his father’s rote assurances, the position akin to royalty felt like a burden too heavy to carry. In the kitchens he felt more like himself, felt that weight lift a little bit.

His eye caught on the Muggles at the back of the kitchen where they were preparing the ingredients for that day’s meal. He watched them chop vegetables and place them in measuring cups and containers that floated atop the table and realized that there was a new Muggle slave there today: the Granger son.

Draco appraised him silently. He had brown hair like the sister, and he kept scrunching his nose to keep his glasses from slipping off his face while chopped. Draco noticed how precisely he cut the vegetables, taking care in a way the other Muggle slaves usually didn’t. One of the times he lifted his head to place the chopped vegetables in the container in front of him, Draco noticed there was a concentration on his face that was refreshing from the fear usually perpetually on the other slaves’ faces.

“Your fish and chips, Master Draco,” Dobby squeaked again, taking Draco’s attention away. When Draco looked down, the little elf had his arm outstretched for Draco to follow him.

Draco obliged and missed the way John Granger’s eyes followed him to the other side of the kitchen.

* * *

As Harry and Hermione were house slaves, they were afforded slightly better accommodations than the strictly prisoners. For one thing, their sleeping quarters were just that: a section of the house very near the dungeons that had been outfitted with beds, washing areas, and a loo, with magical doorways that were transparent on the top third and which afforded at least a semblance of privacy. For another, they had reasonably free reign of the Manor, although the Shackling spell stung them if they wandered too far near an area that was off limits – although there weren’t many – and were able to converse with each other, including sharing time in each other’s rooms after their duties were finished or before they began.

“I think they want to the give the impression that they treat their slaves as part of the family, rather than as prisoners,” Hermione suggested one night about two weeks after their capture in response to Harry’s query about their lodgings.

They were back in their rooms – which were across from each other – and they were sitting cross-legged in a circle on Harry’s bed with Ron (his room was next to Harry’s), their duties having been finished for the night and lights out not being for another half hour.

Harry snorted.

“Pansy is shockingly loquacious in her quarters,” Hermione said. “When she’s not in the mood to play with us.”

Harry grimaced. Hermione had come back from her first night with Pansy pale, shaking, and half unconscious, having been _Crucio_ ed rather badly as a welcome gift. Since that night, Hermione had kept her head down and done everything Pansy asked of her, and it had appeared to keep her away from the wrong end of Pansy’s wand. In fact, it seemed that Pansy was actually starting to like Hermione, as Hermione told it.

“ _Like_ you?” Harry asked, skeptical.

Hermione nodded. “She’s hasn’t even Stung me in three days. I appear to have become her lady-in-waiting of a sort, if I can go by the looks I keep getting from the other chamber slaves.”

“Just be careful, yeah?”

“Yeah. But I’m serious, John.” It was agreed from the first moment Dumbledore placed the Glamour on Harry that he would never be addressed as anything other than John. “She’s quite talkative. And I’m a great listener. I might be able to learn some useful things from her. How’s the kitchens?”  
  


“The house-elves are tough bosses,” Harry said, half-joking. “It’s kind of nice, actually. I always liked cooking with Mum. I like the chaotic routine of it. It keeps me from thinking too much. And I’ve got a friend.” Harry smiled at Ron.

After a pause, Harry asked the room, “What do you know about Draco Malfoy?”

Ron and Hermione both gave him a questioning look, but Ron answered, “He’s the lead Muggle Hunter, next in line to be head of the Squad. They say he could be next in line to Bellatrix Lestrange too.

Hermione added, “He and Pansy are due to be married at the end of the year. It’s one of the things Pansy doesn’t shut up about. Wedding plans. Although I hear that it’s a strategic marriage. That they’re not actually in love. Why?”

Harry shrugged. “He comes down to the kitchens every other day – the days he’s not out hunting Muggles, best as I can figure – and eats fish and chips before supper.”

“Hmmm.” Hermione looked at him thoughtfully. “That’s a rather Muggle meal.”

Harry nodded. “That’s what I was thinking.”

“What is he like with the house-elves?”

“He only ever really interacts with one that seems to be his personal elf. Dobby.”

“What about the human slaves?” Hermione grimaced. “Sorry.”

Harry waved her off and Ron shrugged, unbothered. “Never says a word to us.”

“Hmmm.”

“What are you thinking?”

  
“I don’t know.”

They lapsed into silence for a minute before Hermione said, “We should go back to our cells. Lights out is in a few minutes and the Locking spells will be activated.”

Harry nodded. “See you in the morning, yeah?”

Hermione squeezed his leg. Together she and Ron hopped off his bed, Hermione walking across the hall, Ron sliding into the room next door, all three doors shutting and locking magically at the same moment that the lights were extinguished, and they were left in pitch darkness.

* * *

This morning’s Hunt had only been partially successful. Draco wasn’t entirely sure how no less than three Muggle families had eluded capture but escaped they had. It was a nightmare. The Dark Lord would not be pleased. _His Father_ would not be pleased.

Draco sighed as he pushed open the door to the kitchen. He was starving and in bad need of a firewhiskey and still four hours until supper. His training sessions usually running a couple hours closer to dinner, and his Hunts usually lasting longer than today’s, Draco had hardly ever been in the kitchens this early in the afternoon. The kitchen at this time was quiet and rather empty. The elves and human slaves appeared to be scattered around the Manor tending to some other duties that they performed when the kitchen wasn’t needed.

The only occupant was the Granger son who was cleaning pots, pans, and various dishware and cutlery. Draco again appraised him from the doorway, appreciating the way the muscles of his back flexed as he washed and dried, and the same intense look of concentration on his face as he had when he had been cutting the vegetables.

After a minute, Draco cleared his throat.

John Granger spun around. “Master Malfoy!”

Draco flinched. “You’re John Granger, right?” Granger nodded. “Please call me Draco when we’re in the kitchens. And certainly when there are no elves around. Where is everyone?”

“It’s in between meals,” Granger confirmed. “It’s my turn to clean everything and make sure everything is ready for dinner preparations. But I could get you something?”

“Fish and chips, please. And a firewhiskey.”

John nodded and hurried to comply. The firewhiskey was offered first and Draco sipped it slowly, while he watched Granger fry the fish and chips. Used to having food Appeared by magic, Draco had never thought about the effort it took to make food by hand, as Muggles did. Watching Granger at the fryer was fascinating.

“I can’t promise it’ll be the same quality as Dobby’s, but I hope it will be passable,” Granger said, dumping chips and fish sticks onto a plate and sliding it atop the table towards Draco.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine. Thanks.” He felt Granger’s eyes on him. “What?”

Granger started, caught out. “You have manners.” Draco’s eyebrows lifted. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I meant, you have manners to a slave. You said ‘Please’ and ‘Thank you’ to me. I wasn’t expecting that. I also wasn’t expecting you to eat Muggle food or know my name. Or be in the kitchens at all. But I’ve seen you here every other day for almost a month now.”

Draco popped a couple chips in his mouth, considering. “I like to come down here after a Hunt finishes early or after target practice. I like the chaos of it. Or today I guess, the quiet.”

“Why?” It wasn’t an accusation just curiosity.

Draco pushed chips around his plate with his fork, not looking at Granger. “I feel more like myself down here, away from expectations.” He hadn’t meant to say it, especially to a Muggle slave, but now that it was out in the open, he was glad to have told someone, a weight lifted off his shoulders.

“How do you mean?”

Draco looked at Granger. He’d just met him, and he was a slave to boot, but for whatever reason, Draco felt he could talk to him and wouldn’t be judged. “I can just be Draco down here. I know the elves call me ‘Master Malfoy’ but that’s just their nature. It’s not performative like it is with everyone up there.” Draco waved his fork in the direction of the ceiling, indicating the rest of the Manor. “And when they’re not, they’re ignoring me. The Muggles too. It’s nice. I don’t have expectations down here.”

“I know what you mean,” Granger murmured but Draco caught it and tilted his head in curiosity. “I, er, my parents expected a lot from me. They homeschooled me and my sister, and even though we could never do anything or be anyone as Muggles, they still expected us to be the smartest we could be. It came naturally for Hermione, but – I had other things on my mind.”

“Like what?” Draco asked, interested. He was certain that this young man _did_ have expectations he didn’t want on his shoulders beyond some educational purpose.

Granger considered. “I always had my head in the clouds. Literally. I always wondered what it would be like to fly an airplane. You know, if those still existed.”

Draco was vaguely aware that those were old-fashioned contraptions Muggles used to use to travel places. There was no use for them now with Muggles under the Dark Lord’s rule: Floo networks, apparition, and portkeys were means of travel.

“If you weren’t a Death Eater, what would you be?” Granger asked boldly.

A smile curled Draco’s lips, his answer immediate. “Professional Quidditch player. I love flying. Don’t get to do much of it on the Squad.” After a beat, Draco said, “Maybe I’ll show you what flying on a broom is like one day.” Draco blinked, surprised at himself. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that. I shouldn’t even be talking to you, Muggle.” Draco hardened his voice on instinct, but it felt stilted, contrived.

Granger stared at him, an unreadable expression in his eyes. “You talk like you’re a slave. If you don’t like your fate. Change it.” Granger said it like it was so simple, like it was even an option. “You’re your own master. There are no shackles on you.” – He held up his wrists where the angry red marks indicated a Shackling spell – “Don’t expect pity from me. I’m just a kitchen slave. Now if you’ll excuse me, the elves will back soon to begin dinner preparations and I really need to have the washing finished.”

Draco was taken aback by the shift in Granger’s tone – although he shouldn’t have been with his own change of tone – but left him to his cleaning. Draco slipped out of the kitchen, Granger’s words ringing in his ears.

* * *

“Got a new one today,” Ron muttered, nodding to the table across the kitchen. They were all of them measuring ingredients for the omelets the elves would be making for breakfast that morning. “A werewolf.”

Harry started. “Aren’t all the prisoners here Muggles?”

Ron looked at him curiously. “Nah, mate. Some of us are blood traitors or creatures like werewolves. I’m a blood traitor. A wizard. Our Shackling spells have magic suppressants spells weaved into them. Thought you knew that.”

“Huh.” He’d been under the impression that only Muggles were held prisoner at Malfoy Manor, victims of the Hunting Squad, with blood traitors being apprehended differently and shipped elsewhere. “So, er, what exactly do you mean by ‘blood traitor’?” Harry knew, of course, from his lessons with Dumbledore what Voldemort considered a ‘blood traitor’, but he wanted to be sure.

“We’re purebloods with ‘unacceptable Muggle leanings’” – he made air quotes with his fingers – “or who have married Muggles. Or else half-bloods who are children of wizards and Muggles or Muggleborns. Mudbloods, as the Death Eaters call them.” His mouth twisted in disgust and Harry could tell he wanted to say more about that, but was refraining from doing so, in case they were overheard.

“Where’s the rest of your family?” Harry asked. “I never asked.”

“Like I said, we’re purebloods, so Dad’s a designated Ministry worker. Last I heard my older brothers and little sister were all in hiding in Romania. My brother Charlie works with dragons there. I wanted to stay with Dad, so I ended up getting put to work here. What about your family?”  
  


“You know my sister, Hermione. Our parents were killed by the Hunters.” Harry choked down the omission of his true identity.

Suddenly, a rough voice whispered in his ear, “I know who are. Meet me in the tunnel behind the kitchens an hour before curfew. Bring your sister.”

Harry whipped around to see the werewolf pass behind him towards the group of house elves standing wait at the stove.

++++++++

“John, are you sure this is a good idea?” Hermione whispered feverishly, as they hurried along the corridors. “We don’t even know this werewolf. This could be a trap!”

“Death Eaters pretending to be werewolf slaves now, are they?” Harry shot back.

Hermione pursed her lips.

“Elves and kitchen slaves are the only ones who come down these tunnels. They go to the stock rooms under the Manor.”

The flaming torches on the walls ignited as they hurried by. They were almost at the stock rooms when a hand grabbed the sleeve of Harry’s slave robes and pulled him into an alcove. Hermione gasped and ran after him.

“Sorry for the roughness,” the werewolf said immediately in a low tone. “We need this to be as secret as possible. My name is Remus Lupin and I know you are Harry Potter. And you are Hermione Granger.” Lupin indicated Hermione with a nod.

"Harry Potter is a myth,” Hermione said, the practiced lie.

“Cut the crap. I am a member of a secret resistance movement called the Order of the Phoenix. Dumbledore was the founder. I knew your parents, Harry. Lily and James. I was their friend. We were all part of the Order during You-Know-Who’s first rise to power. Dumbledore entrusted me and other select members of the Order with the knowledge of where you were and what he was doing with you two.”

“Why did Dumbledore never tell us about the Order?” Hermione countered. She crossed her arms over her chest, defiant.

“Dumbledore was the Secret Keeper of your house. We only knew you were with the Grangers, Harry, and that Dumbledore was training you. Those of us in the Order who knew you were alive were responsible for making sure that You-Know-Who never got wind of what he was doing. False reports of his whereabouts, etcetera. I can’t tell you why Dumbledore didn’t tell you about the Order but I’m sure he had his reasons.”

“This Order. Are there still others?” Harry asked.

“Yes. All over the country and abroad. We operate underground.”

“You got caught,” Hermione pointed out rather unnecessarily.

“I got caught _on purpose_ ,” Lupin corrected. “News of your capture finally made it underground.”

“We were caught a month ago,” Hermione sniffed, her arms still crossed.

“Were you this argumentative with Dumbledore?” Lupin asked, but it wasn’t an accusation. Hermione bristled. “I can see you don’t trust me, Miss Granger. But Dumbledore left all of us a job to do and I think it’s time we all start doing it.”

* * *

After that first conversation with Granger, Draco made a point to finish target practices early and head to the kitchens during the lull between lunch and dinner. More often than not, he found Granger there alone, his “turn” to clean pots and dishware evidently more a constant shift than a revolving chore. In fact, after the first few visits, Draco appeared in the kitchen to find a plate of fish and chips and a butterbeer already waiting for him. While Draco ate, they talked about all manner of things: their childhoods, their dreams, their inner desires, what their lives might have been if the world had been different. The quiet visits with John Granger in the kitchen had rapidly become Draco’s favorite part of his day. Draco had never been so dangerously enthralled by someone in his life.

“You’re getting better at these,” Draco complimented one afternoon about a month after their first visit.

Granger grinned. “Maybe you’ve just gotten used to my frying.”

Draco laughed, warmth spreading through him at their easy and natural banter.

“How was target practice today?” Granger asked, leaning his arms on the counter, the pots and dishes abandoned in the sink.

“Fortifying, as usual,” Draco replied, munching on a chip.

“Have you gotten to fly at all?”

Draco shook his head, frowning. After a beat, he asked, “Do you like it down here?”

Shock passed across Granger’s face, obviously surprised Draco had asked the question, but he recovered quickly. “Yeah. I do actually. I used to cook with my Mum. I’m not entirely doing the cooking down here – unless you count your fish and chips – but it’s close enough, that I feel settled, reminded a bit of home. As much as I can be here. But being a house slave is better than being a prisoner.”

“What do you mean?” Draco asked. Weren’t house slaves prisoners too?

Granger boggled at him. “You’re joking, right?”

Draco felt cowed, embarrassed that he was apparently missing something important, and just stared at Granger.

“You’re not are you?” Granger scowled at him. “As house slaves, you’ve given us freedom to basically go anywhere in the Manor and the grounds. We get better sleeping quarters – a semblance of privacy and protection, a bed, a loo, Heating and Cooling charms, laundered clothes, even proper meals. We feel at least halfway human. Prisoners in the dungeons are all cramped together in overcrowded cells, no loo, scraps of food, and a constant fear of being chosen for _your_ ” – Granger pointed at him accusingly – “target practice or your fiancée’s whims or else dying of cold or heat or moved to Azkaban or killed at random. The prisoners might as well be cattle. Actually, your cattle is probably treated better than your prisoners.”

The words settled thickly between them and Draco’s heart clenched unbidden, his stomach twisted in knots. He oversaw the arrangements for the slaves and prisoners, but he had never paused to actually consider them.

Before Draco could respond, a lynx Patronus burst into the kitchen requesting Draco’s presence in the parlor for wedding planning.

Granger straightened at the intrusion. “You better go. And I should get back to cleaning anyway.”

Little though Draco actually wanted to leave, especially for the inanity of wedding discussions with Pansy and his mother, Draco watched Granger turn away and could have sworn there was a scowl on Granger’s face.

+++++++

“Draco,” Pansy purred when he entered the parlor.

Draco smiled tightly and kissed the hand she extended to him. Then he sat next to her on the settee, inches between them. His mother sat across them in her favorite wingchair.

Wedding magazines and booklets floated in the space between them, the pages flipping of their own accord at his mother’s wave.

Draco leaned back on the settee, his head tipped back on the top, staring at the ceiling. The taste of fish and chips lingered on his tongue and the bitter taste of Granger’s words about the prisoners rattled in his ears, his mind racing. A deep longing to fly like he hadn’t felt in a long time panged sharply in his chest.

“Draco. Draco!” Pansy’s voice trilled.

Draco snapped his head up. “Did you say something?”

Pansy gave him a strange look. “I asked which dress robes you like best.”

There were three models of himself spinning in the air, each wearing a different color and style of dress robes.

“Oh. Er – whichever you think is best,” Draco answered, his mind still in the kitchen and in the air.

“Draco, these are your wedding robes,” Narcissa chided. “At least try and put in some effort.”

“Mother, we all know this wedding is all about Pansy,” Draco retorted. “I’m going flying. I’ll be back in time for supper.” Without giving either of them the chance to respond, Draco left.

* * *

Harry would never admit it to Hermione but ever since that first time Draco Malfoy walked into the kitchen off-hours, Harry kept time by his continued visits in between meals. During those visits they discussed all manner of topics from their childhoods to more about their inner desires and dreams. Out of a morbid curiosity, Harry poked him for details about “Hogwerth” (“Hogwarts,” Draco corrected gently) and if he knew what the wizarding world was like before You-Know-Who rose to power. Following his initial meeting with Lupin, Harry itched to press Draco about Death Eater plans and inner workings but feared pushing too far. Not to mention that Harry’s stomach turned at the idea of using Draco for inside information only to betray him, and that was something Harry didn’t want to examine too closely because he knew it was dangerous.

“You’re getting better at these,” Draco complimented him one afternoon about a month after their first visit.

Harry grinned, ignoring how his heart swelled and butterflies fluttered in his stomach at the praise. To calm himself, Harry replied, “Maybe you’ve just gotten used to my frying.”

Draco laughed, his face alight. Warmth spread through Harry at the sight and the knowledge that he could please Draco so easily.

“How was target practice today?” Harry asked, leaning his arms on the counter, the pots and dishes forgotten in the sink.

“Fortifying, as usual,” Draco replied, munching on a chip.

“Have you gotten to fly at all?”

Draco shook his head, a frown twisting his lips. Harry ached for him. Draco wasn’t nearly as free as Harry had assumed at first light, almost as much a prisoner of his status in the world as Harry was.

After a beat, Draco asked, “Do you like it down here?”

Harry startled at the question, surprised Draco would care to ask, but he recovered quickly. “Yeah. I do actually. I used to cook with my Mum. I’m not entirely doing the cooking down here – unless you count your fish and chips – but it’s close enough, that I feel settled, reminded a bit of home. As much as I can be here. But being a house slave is better than being a prisoner.”

“What do you mean?” Draco asked.

Harry boggled at him. “You’re joking, right?”

Draco’s face seemed to pale but he just stared at Harry.

“You’re not are you?” Harry realized Draco had no idea what it was like for those he captured and felt compelled to explain. “As house slaves, we have freedom to basically go anywhere in the Manor and the grounds. We get better sleeping quarters – a semblance of privacy and protection, a bed, a loo, Heating and Cooling charms, laundered clothes, even proper meals. We feel at least halfway human. Prisoners in the dungeons are all cramped together in overcrowded cells, no loo, scraps of food, and a constant fear of being chosen for _your_ ” – Harry pointed at him accusingly – “target practice or your fiancée’s whims or else dying of cold or heat or moved to Azkaban or killed at random. The prisoners might as well be cattle. Actually, your cattle is probably treated better than your prisoners.”

Before Draco could respond, a lynx Patronus burst into the kitchen requesting Draco’s presence in the parlor for wedding planning.

Harry straightened at the intrusion, the moment between them broken. “You better go. And I should get back to cleaning anyway.”

Harry turned away and didn’t want to examine the pang of something that resembled jealousy.

+++++++

Harry found himself chopping vegetables with Lupin two weeks later while Ron was on runner duty.

“I’ve arranged a meeting for you and Miss Granger with the Order for tonight. Meet me in the main stock room just before lights out,” Lupin whispered under his breath.

Harry nodded his head once in acknowledgement without missing a chop.

+++++++

“Sneaking out of the Manor?! Are you insane?” Hermione once again whispered furiously as she followed his hurried steps down the corridor, the magical flames flaring to life as they passed.

“You’re free to go back, ’Mione,” Harry snapped. “But I’m tired of sitting around and doing nothing towards what we’re meant to be doing!”

Hermione huffed but gave him no argument.

They slowed their steps as they came to the main stock room and entered as quietly as possible. Lupin was already inside waiting for them. He nodded at them and silently opened a trap door on the floor that Harry had never noticed before.

“It’s hidden. Only Order members can find it and these,” Lupin explained when they were safely through and in the tunnels under the Manor. Lupin wordlessly and wandlessly summoned a ball of light and it bounced ahead of them, lighting their path.

“So, there are other Order members enslaved at the Manor?” Harry asked.

“Some. There used to be more over the years, who were caught on purpose like me in attempts to sabotage the Manor. They’ve either been found out and killed or escaped and resisted from elsewhere.”

Neither Harry nor Hermione had anything to say to that, so they walked on in silence. After walking for a half hour and what Harry took to be about two miles, they stopped at a cave. Lupin waved them through.

“There’s no one here,” Hermione said unnecessarily.

Lupin ignored her and moved his ball of light around, searching for something. After a minute, he picked up a stone with a mark in it that look suspiciously like a lightning bolt.

“This is an unregistered portkey,” Lupin explained. “It’s activated by the word ‘phoenix’.” Sure enough the rock lit up and began vibrating. “Quick! Grab hold!”

Harry and Hermione both touched the rock and were jerked by their navels into nothingness. A second later, they landed on their knees on a throw rug.

Harry sat back on his haunches and took in their surroundings. They appeared to be in a comfortable wood cabin. As it was the middle of May, there was no fire burning but lamps around the sitting room were burning low, giving the space a soft, glowing warmth. There was a couch behind them with throw pillows and there was a loveseat caddy cornered with the couch. A wireless sat on the coffee table in front the couch.

“Where are we?” Hermione asked, her eyes roving the cabin.

“With all due respect, Miss Granger, it’s safer for everyone if you don’t know the specifics. This is a safe house for Order members, known only to the Secret Keeper and those he allows access.”

Hermione nodded and brooked no argument.

“Harry Potter,” a voice said. A man with ragged dark hair but with a ruggedly handsome face appeared from what Harry assumed was the bedroom. “I’ve been waiting a long time to see you again.”

Harry had a sense of warm familiarity but had no idea why.

“I’m Sirius Black. You’re godfather.” Sirius held his hand out. Harry shook it, his eyes moving furiously over Sirius’s face. “I expect you’d look like your dad under that Glamour.”

“You knew my parents?” Harry asked. “Lily and James, I mean.”

Lupin motioned them to the couch. He sat down next to Harry with Hermione on Harry’s other side. Sirius leaned gracefully against the side of the fireplace, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Sirius, James, and I were best friends at Hogwarts when it was still a school worthy of having that title,” Lupin explained. “We all joined the Order together with Lily straight out of school when You-Know-Who was just rising to power.”

Harry swallowed thickly. Dumbledore had told him the basics of his parents, but these people were their _friends_. They had years of history of with Lily and James, could tell him all sorts of stories and little insights into what had made his parents the people they had been, people who had let themselves die to keep their son alive.

There was a scuffle from what appeared to be the loo. Harry and Hermione jumped up, alarmed, but Lupin said, “It’s alright. That’ll be Tonks, Kingsley, and Moody.”

As if on cue, three people emerged from the loo: a woman with a shock of bubblegum pink hair, a tall, bulky dark-skinned man with scars across his arms, and a gruff looking man who had a limp and had a bright blue glass eye that was twirling furiously in its socket strapped to his head, his face nearly split in half by a jagged scar.

“Wotcher, Harry,” the woman said. “My name’s Tonks.” Harry shook her hand and then she sunk onto the floor cross-legged next to the loveseat.

“Kingsley Shacklebolt. Nice to finally meet you, Harry,” the black man said in a deep voice, also extending a hand. Harry shook it and Kingsley took the vacant loveseat.

“Alastor Moody,” the man with the glass eye barked, nodding his acquaintance. He stomped over to the side of the fireplace not occupied by Sirius.

“Now that we’re all here,” Lupin said. “We don’t have a lot of time before we need to be back in the Manor, but we thought it was time you were made aware of some of the resistance.” Lupin addressed Harry and Hermione.

“What exactly do you do?” Harry asked. On a whim, he muttered the phrase that would allow these new friends to see his true face.

“Nice one,” Sirius said, grinning. “Knew you’d look like James.” Harry returned his godfather’s grin, love for him, instant and unwavering. Then Sirius picked up the thread of Harry’s question about the Order. “Blow things up. Make things difficult for the Death Eaters,” Sirius answered, his eyes glinting with glee. “Fuck up some of those Malfoy Hunts.”

Harry started but schooled his face into a mask.

“Keep you a myth,” Shacklebolt said. “Kill as many Death Eaters as possible, if we can’t turn them into double agents for our side. Get as much information as we can.”

“We have a number of professors in Hogwarts who have been attempting to make the students see there is a different way. But it’s slow going. The Death Eater way is too ingrained or else the children too afraid of their parents to turn against them,” Lupin supplied. “What can you tell us about what Dumbledore was training you for?”

“Shouldn’t you know?” Hermione asked. She was clearly still suspicious.

“’Mione, it’s okay. I trust them.” Harry said, a hand on her knee, and indicated his face. Hermione sniffed but didn’t say anything else. “Do you know what a Horcrux is?”

Everyone in the room nodded.

“Dumbledore figured out You-Know-Who had seven Horcruxes, including me – made when You-Know-Who tried to kill me – except You-Know-Who thinks he only made six. He doesn’t know about me, or at least that’s what Dumbledore figured. Last time we spoke to Dumbledore, which was a week before the Death Eaters found us, he had found and destroyed five of them. The only one left besides me is the snake, Nagini. We can’t get close enough to destroy her, obviously.”

“Do you have something to destroy her with?” Sirius asked. “You can’t just blast a Horcrux.”

“Dumbledore had the sword of Gryffindor imbibed with basilisk venom,” Hermione said, evidently having shaken off her initial distrust. She pulled a necklace out from under the T-shirt she was wearing. It looked like a tiny sword on the end of a chain. “He shrunk it so I could wear it and always have it on me. I know the spell to restore it. It’s not just a regular _Engorgio_.”

“Okay. We need a plan to get the snake,” Lupin said.

Moody snorted. “We don’t even know where the bastard is. You expect to just walk up to him and off his pet?”

“No, Alastor. That’s why I said we need a plan,” Lupin responded with the tone of patience that suggested he was not patient at all.

“I say we continue gathering intel,” Tonks chimed in. “The more information we have, the better the plan.”

  
“Tonks is right.” Shacklebolt. “We keep doing what we’re doing and hope for an opportunity to get Harry and Hermione close enough to the snake to kill it.”

“How long do we wait?” Harry asked. “Because, all due respect, I’ve waited twenty years to off You-Know-Who and I’m tired of waiting.”

“I don’t know, Harry,” Lupin said gently. “But we have a better chance of succeeding without going after him half-cocked. In the meantime, take these.” He handed Harry and Hermione each a gold coin. “These are our means of communication. They burn when there’s a message. To send a message, you just press it into your palm and think the message you want to send.”

“You’ve been gone long enough, Remus,” Shacklebolt noted. “We should scatter.”

Lupin nodded and grabbed the rock. Lupin activated it and, in the seconds before they were jerked away, Sirius pulled Harry into a rough hug.

* * *

“Draco, what is this?” Lucius drawled, gesturing to the plans laid out on Draco’s desk.

“Please do come in, Father,” Draco said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “And if you must know, I’ve decided to review the way our prisoners are being held in the dungeons.”

“They’re Muggle scum.” Lucius had a sneer on his face and his nose was wrinkled as if just the thought of Muggles could produce a bad smell.

“They are not animals, however, and should not be treated as such,” Draco said boldly, not looking at his father. “Therefore, their _accommodations_ in our dungeons are going to be altered immediately. And as I oversee prisoner arrangements, you have no say in the matter.”

“Are you feeling well, son?” Draco raised his head to find Lucius looking at him like he’d grown a Venemous Tentacula out of his head. “Is this why you’ve been distracted? Why you’ve been failing to complete successful Hunts? Don’t think the Dark Lord hasn’t noticed your fuck ups,” Lucius spat, turned on his heel, and left Draco’s study in a flourish.

Draco was shocked that the words didn’t sting as much as he thought they would. In fact, there was a distinct sense of rebellion burning in his belly. 

++++++++++

“So, we were instructed by the elves today to bring _breakfast_ to the prisoners in the dungeons, and our shifts have been altered to include meal deliveries to the dungeons,” Granger said to him immediately upon Draco’s entrance into the kitchen a week later. “You wouldn’t have anything to do with that, would you?”

He slid the usual plate of fish and chips and butterbeer across the counter as Draco settled on a stool.

“If I did?” Draco asked, wanting Granger’s approval more than anything.

Granger’s grin lit up his face and Draco’s heart swelled. “Well, I – thank you.”

“Who says I did it for you?” Draco said, his lips twitching at the corners. It felt dangerously close to flirting.

Granger cocked an eyebrow at him. “If you say so.” Granger snorted in amusement and went back to cleaning the dishes.

Draco never tired of watching Granger. His muscles, the concentration on his face. After a minute, Draco said, “I’m also working out how to arrange for the prisoners to have cots with blankets to sleep on, loo arrangements, and cleaning charms at regular intervals. I can’t give them all rooms like you have but hopefully the changes will make things a bit more comfortable for them. I’m also immediately ceasing target practice on humans. Enchanted dummies only.”

Granger was quiet for a beat. Then he asked evenly, “Won’t you get in trouble?”

  
Draco chewed on a chip. “Father wasn’t too pleased, but he can’t do anything about it. I doubt the Dark Lord will be bothered to care about how we treat our prisoners in our own home.” He hoped it was the truth, but was startled to find he didn’t care if it wasn’t.

Draco slid off the stool and walked over to Granger, who was still resolutely cleaning dishes. Draco gently cupped his elbow to get his attention. Granger’s hands stopped at the contact and he slowly turned his head, letting the plates gently fall into the soapy water with a _plop_. Draco was acutely aware of how close their faces were. “You were right. I didn’t know. I didn’t _want_ to know. I never considered how we treated our prisoners because there I believed there was nothing to consider. But you made me see that there was – _is_ – something to consider. We were treating them like animals, but they’re not. They’re as human as I am.”

“Isn’t it treason to say that?” Granger asked quietly, his eyes searching Draco’s.

Draco held Granger’s gaze for a long minute before brushing their lips together.

* * *

Harry’s heart stuttered in his chest. They were still, just mouth on mouth, until Harry parted his lips and felt Draco do the same. Draco’s hand hadn’t moved from Harry’s elbow and Harry leaned his arm into Draco’s chest as he deepened the kiss, his tongue lapping experimentally against Draco’s lips. Draco easily granted access; Harry did the same. They kissed languidly for a long time, Harry wasn’t sure how long, but when he could no longer breathe, Harry pulled away, dropping his forehead against Draco’s.

“I can’t stop thinking about you, John,” Draco breathed.

In that moment, Harry wanted nothing more than to reveal his identity.

“I can’t,” Harry whispered and pulled his head away, turning back to the sink and the dishes left abandoned. Harry didn’t see the hurt that flashed in Draco’s eyes.

Draco’s hand dropped from Harry’s elbow. Harry missed the contact immediately. 

“I apologize,” Draco said, his voice strangely tight and he took a step back. “I thought...I’m sorry if I misinterpreted.”

Harry swallowed thickly, took a deep breath to steady himself, and turned his face to Draco again. “You didn’t. I want to. I just. I _can’t_. I’m a slave and a Muggle.” The lie tasted bitter on Harry’s tongue. “You’re – you. And you’re _engaged_.”

Draco frowned. “I don’t care about that. I don’t love Pansy. Not in that way. Our wedding is about power. That’s it.”

For the second time in minutes, Harry turned away, focusing on the rhythm of washing and drying to calm his racing heart. “You should leave, Draco. The others will be back soon. I have to get things ready.”

He heard rather than saw Draco leave the kitchen.

++++++++

“Hey, have you heard a word I said?” Hermione asked.

Harry’s head was leaned against the wall of his room, his mind back in the kitchen with Draco. Harry started at Hermione’s pinch to his knee.

“What?”

  
“I was saying that Parkinson was ranting all day about how Malfoy’s checked out of all the wedding plans and complaining that he told her she can’t play with prisoners anymore. Are you alright?”

“I want to tell Draco who I really am,” Harry blurted.

“ _Excuse me_?”

Harry sighed and was suddenly very interested in a loose thread on his blanket. “Draco’s been coming down to the kitchens every other day in between meals for the past three months and we’ve…bonded. He’s different than I expected. He’s a victim of the world the same way we are.”

“Did you ever think he’s pretending to be like that because he _already_ knows who you are and he’s trying to draw you out?”

Harry shook his head, but his stomach squirmed uncomfortably. “He’s not like that.”

“You’ve known him for three months. You don’t know _what_ he’s like.”

“I know that when I brought his attention to the awful condition the non-house slave prisoners live in, he immediately changed it. You just said it yourself!”

Hermione pursed her lips, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she said, “I still don’t think it’s a good idea to tell him who you are. How do you know he won’t turn around and summon You-Know-Who?”

“I trust him, Hermione. I don’t know why, but I do. I know that he won’t betray me.”

Hermione studied him for a few seconds. “You really like him, don’t you?”

Harry nodded. “We kissed. Earlier. I want him to know who I really am.”

“Would he even believe you?”

“I want to show him.”

“You – you want to take the Glamour off?”

“I want him to see _past_ the Glamour. Like you and Mum and Dad. And Dumbledore. And the…others.” He didn’t want to say ‘Order’ in case they were overheard. They could never be too careful.

Hermione chewed her lip, thinking. “If you show him, you’re going to have to tell him the whole truth. Are you – we – prepared to do that?” She glanced at the door and then lowered her voice. “The…others would say this is so reckless.”

“Maybe it’s what we’ve been waiting for,” Harry countered.

They stared at each other, silently challenging the other.

Eventually, Hermione said, “It’s almost lights out. Please think about this, Ha – John. Don’t rush into anything.”

Harry nodded at her as she left, but he wasn’t sure he could keep his promise.

* * *

Although his heart wasn’t in it, to keep himself distracted, Draco threw himself into work: arranging the new accommodations for the prisoners in the dungeons, training his Squad, planning and executing hunts. He even pandered to Pansy’s whims and participated in wedding planning, albeit on autopilot. Most importantly, he avoided going to the kitchens. Instead, he had Dobby bring him his mid-meal fish and chips in his study or his chambers; if Dobby noticed the change in his behavior, he didn’t mention it. 

To clear his head, Draco took to flying as much as he could. Summer was in full swing and the warm air was refreshing to a mind and soul in turmoil.

It was on such a Saturday in the first week of July when Draco stumbled upon John Granger in the garden. Draco had only caught glimpses of him in the three weeks since their kiss in the kitchen, moments when Granger was attending to duties around the Manor and Draco was passing by. They hadn’t spoken since that day, and if Granger had seen him, Granger made no indication.

Draco stopped in his tracks. Granger was on hands and knees, dragonhide gloves on his hands, tending to the vegetable garden. Draco appraised him. His hair was almost red in the summer sun and his skin was kissed a golden-brown. The muscles Draco loved so much bulged sharply through his light slave’s tunic as he alternated between spading dirt and planting bulbs.

Before Draco could slip away, Granger looked up and spotted him. Draco swore under his breath as Granger seemed to pale slightly.

“Dr – Master Malfoy,” Granger struggled. Draco’s heart sank.

“Hey,” Draco tried, unsure of himself.

Granger had an unreadable expression on his face.

“Have you been flying?”  
  


“What?”

Granger nodded at the broom in Draco’s hand.

“Oh. Yeah. I’ve been getting out as much as possible. The summer air clears my head.”

Granger wiped his hair back from his forehead with the back of his gloved hand. “I haven’t seen you in the kitchens in a while.”

Draco shifted uncomfortably. What was he supposed to say?

Granger saved him the trouble of figuring it out when he said, “Can we talk? Somewhere private? Not the kitchen?”

Draco blinked at the query. “Meet me in the Abraxan stables in five minutes.”

Granger nodded and returned to his spading.

* * *

Hermione had managed to warn him off revealing his identity to Draco for three weeks, in a large part because Draco had stopped coming to the kitchens for fish and chips since their kiss. But the separation had only made Harry ache for his kitchen visits with Draco and live in the memory of their lips slotted together, their tongues swirling around each other.

So, when he looked up from tending to the vegetables and saw Draco watching him, Harry reaffirmed his decision to tell Draco the truth. But doubt crept up on him during his walk to the stables, Hermione’s warnings rattling in his head. Still, he took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

Draco was already there, feeding and combing one of the beautiful golden Abraxans. Although one of Harry’s duties as a house slave was to feed and wash the Abraxans, he didn’t know the winged horses by their names.

Harry walked over to Draco.

“Who is this lovely creature?” Harry asked, a smile curling his lips.

Draco turned his head, his hand never stilling. “This is Hyperion. He’s mine. He was a gift for my seventh birthday.”

Harry snorted in amusement. “My gift for my seventh birthday was a robot.”

Draco looked at him curiously. “What’s a robot?”

Harry considered how to explain it so Draco could understand. “Robots are – or were before you lot sacked all the Muggle stuff out of stores – toys. I guess they were kind of like house elves except they’re not alive. You put little charging things in them called batteries and they had on and off switches that made them walk and talk in these mechanical kinds of voices.”

Draco looked lost. “You didn’t understand any of that, did you?”

“Not really,” Draco admitted with a sheepish grin.

Harry laughed and he felt lighter than he had in three weeks.

They fell into silence while Harry watched Draco finish combing Hyperion. He looked content caring for his favorite pet, more open, like he did in the kitchens. Not stiff and imposing in the stilted sort of way that he did when Harry saw him around the Manor or on the training field commanding his Squad members.

When he finished, Draco dropped the brush into the bucket at his feet and said without looking at Harry, “What did you want to talk about?”

Harry steeled himself. This was the moment of no return. Either his trust was misplaced, and he was about to be turned over to Lord Voldemort, or something new and exciting and very, very dangerous was about to begin.

Harry took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and said, “I solemnly swear this trust is earned, let the truth of my identity be learned.”

Nothing felt different to Harry – the Glamour had not actually been removed, just made transparent to see underneath – but he knew it had worked because he heard Draco gasp.

Harry opened his eyes to find Draco gaping at him, his eyes wide and moving furiously over Harry’s face, lingering longest on the lightning-shaped scar over his right eye.

“I’m Harry Potter,” Harry said, his voice sounding shaky to his ears. “And when I said I couldn’t be with you for all those reasons in the kitchen, that was the truth. But it wasn’t the whole truth. I didn’t want to be with you without you knowing who I really am.”

When Draco only continued to stare at him, Harry began to panic. “Please say something.”

“But – you’re a _Muggle_.”

Despite Harry just having done magic to show through the Glamour, Harry threw a wordless _Wingardium Leviosa_ at the brush Draco had abandoned.

Draco watched the brush rise out of the bucket and float in the air. When Draco made no move to do anything but stare, Harry asked, “Will you let me explain?” It was exceedingly reckless to confess the whole story, or most of it anyway, but he’d already come this far.

Draco’s eyes snapped back to Harry’s. He nodded. Harry breathed a sigh of relief.

“After the Dark Lord killed my parents – my real parents – and the curse backfired on him, Albus Dumbledore hid me away under a _Fidelius_ charm with the Grangers. He trained us both – me and Hermione – in magic – wandless, obviously, and wordless – and put an undetectable Glamour on me. But I can let people I trust see through the Glamour.”

“You’re all wizards? The Grangers?” Draco asked, seeming to come back to himself.

Harry shook his head. “Hermione is. Our parents are Muggles. The charm broke when Dumbledore died.”

Draco didn’t deny that Dumbledore was dead. Then, to Harry’s surprise, Draco laughed. “Pansy would have twelve hippogriffs if she knew her first chamber slave was a witch.”

Harry panicked. “Draco, please, you can’t tell anyone,” Harry pleaded. Draco sobered. “I told you because I didn’t want there to be secrets between us. And because if there is _ever_ going to be anything between us, I wanted it to be _me_ you were with, not my cover story.”

Draco remained resolutely silent.

Harry took another deep breath. “I realize that I’ve put you in a difficult situation and you do what you have to even if that means turning me over your Dark Lord. But I hope it doesn’t. Because I’d really like to be with you, even it’s a ridiculously stupid and dangerous thing to do.”

Draco swallowed, taking in Harry’s words, but still said nothing.

With panic squirming uncomfortably in his stomach, Harry bowed slightly to Draco, not knowing what else to do, and fled back to the Manor, hoping he hadn’t just made the hugest mistake of his life.

++++++++

“You told him _everything_?” Hermione asked. They were on her bed, their duties having been completed for the night and Hermione dismissed from chambers.

“Not about my mission but about the Glamour, Dumbledore training us. He knows you’re a witch,” Harry admitted.

“What did he say?” Hermione bit her lip nervously and Harry chose not to tell her about the Pansy comment.

“Not much really, actually. He just stared at me mostly. I think it was a lot for him to process.”

“I hope that doesn’t mean what it feels like it means,” Hermione said slowly, her eyes full of meaning.

“I know,” Harry whispered, tears stinging his eyes.

Hermione pulled him into a hug and then he retired to his own room, falling into a fitful sleep, his dreams plagued by Lord Voldemort.

* * *

Draco slept in fits and turns for the following week. His upbringing and his training told him it was his obligation to immediately reveal the whereabouts of Harry Potter to the Dark Lord. He could practically hear his Father’s comments: “The glory the Dark Lord would bestow upon us, Draco, for having presented Harry Potter to him on a silver platter!” The thought made Draco’s stomach twist and his lips curl into a twisted, angry line. The stronger part of him – his heart – reminded him that Harry – _Harry!_ – had trusted him with the truth of his identity, had trusted that Draco would not turn him over to the Dark Lord. That trust meant more to Draco than he had realized at first light and Draco would not betray that trust. Still, the conflict inside Draco between his duty and his desire rankled and Draco’s work suffered for his distraction.

“Draco, that is the third Hunt you’ve fucked up this week!” Lucius shouted at him.

Draco ignored him, choosing instead to unfasten his robes, hand them to Dobby, and walk away towards his study.

Lucius followed him. “No less than fifteen Muggle families slithered out from under your nose! Squad members I’ve talked to say you’ve been distracted, flippant even, about the work you’re doing. This isn’t like you, son. Are you well?”

Draco thought there may have actually been some concern for him behind his father’s question. “I’m fine,” Draco responded shortly, climbing the stairs to the second floor. “Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to be in my study attempting to correct my ‘fuck ups’ as you so delicately put it. Do not follow me.” Draco didn’t turn around to see if Lucius had obeyed his command but slammed his study door anyway.

There was a soft knock on his study door an hour later. “Go away, Father.”

“Draco, may I come in?” his mother asked from the corridor.

Draco sighed and closed the book he was reading. “Enter.”

“ _Mon Coeur_ , are you feeling well? Your father is worried about you.”

“I’m fine, Mother. As I told Father.” The cocked eyebrow she gave him told him she knew he was lying.

He itched for her advice. Narcissa was not formally a Death Eater – she bore no Mark – and her allegiance to the Dark Lord was in as much as was necessary to keep her family in good favor.

“If you possessed information you ought to reveal out of obligation and duty, but your heart told you to keep the confidence because revealing the information would put someone you cared about in danger, what would you do?” Draco asked, his eyes downcast and his hand fiddling with the end of the bookmark sticking out of his book.

He felt her eyes on him, assessing him, and the question. After a long minute, Narcissa said, “I would follow my heart.”

Draco’s eyes snapped up. She had a soft, knowing smile on her face and sad concern in her eyes. Tears pricked at Draco’s eyes as Narcissa came around the desk to drop a kiss on the crown of his head. Her long fingers squeezed his shoulder as she left him to his thoughts.

++++++++++

Draco found Harry in the stables the next morning.

“Is this to be our new meeting place?” Draco teased, a smile tugging at his lips.

Harry’s head whipped around, eyes wide. His face was still his real one.

"I can see your real face,” Draco commented, walking towards where Harry was filling Hyperion’s water bucket from the spigot next to the stall. Draco had never noticed it but supposed it was there for the slaves who couldn’t or weren’t allowed to use magic; Draco himself simply used _Aguamenti_ whenever he filled the bucket.

“Now that I’ve let you see it, it’s the face you’ll see,” Harry said, resolutely not looking at Draco.

Draco petted Hyperion’s neck and examined Harry. Everything about him looked the same, except the shock of black hair on his head, where it had been sandy brown before, and the green eyes behind his glasses, where they had been brown under the Glamour. And of course, the scar.

“Was it real?” The question had plagued him all week.

“Was what real?” Harry asked, straightening up and finally turning to Draco. They were standing inches apart. Harry’s hand came up to pet Hyperion on the side opposite to Draco’s ministrations.

“All of it. Everything in the kitchens. What we talked about.”

“Yeah, it was,” Harry answered immediately. “I didn’t lie about any of that.”

“I killed your parents,” Draco said so quietly he wasn’t sure Harry heard him. He wasn’t even sure he’d said it aloud.

“You-Know-Who did it first,” Harry deadpanned. Draco laughed, startled by the response, his hand falling away from Hyperion.

Harry grinned, wide and all teeth, his tongue peeking out between his lips. Draco’s breath caught in his chest. Harry’s real face was beautiful when he smiled; not that John Granger’s hadn’t been, but Harry Potter’s green eyes sparkled the brightest emerald and were the perfect offset to his black hair and golden brown skin.

Harry’s hand stilled on Hyperion and he took a step closer to Draco, his free hand coming up to fix the collar of Draco’s shirt – even though Draco knew perfectly well it had never shifted out of place. Harry’s hand came to rest on Draco’s chest, just over his heart.

“So, does this mean you’re not going to turn me over to the Dark Lord?” Harry asked, his eyes searching Draco’s.

Draco shook his head, unable to speak for their closeness and Harry’s hand settled lightly on his chest.

Harry tipped his face up and captured Draco’s lips in a gentle kiss. Draco sighed into it, his arm coming around Harry’s waist to pull him closer. Harry’s hand slid up Draco’s chest, his fingers trailing lightly against Draco’s skin exposed by his collar before settling into the hair at the base of Draco’s neck, cradling his head. His other arm left Hyperion to curl around Draco’s waist. Draco’s other arm came around Harry’s back, so they were cocooned in each other’s arms. Draco had never felt safer or more at home.

They kissed lazily for a long time until Draco pulled back, lightheaded from lack of oxygen and the effect Harry had on him. His eyes still closed, he rested his forehead against Harry’s. Harry’s arm curled around his neck, keeping him there.

When Draco opened his eyes, Harry looked so content, a small smile playing at his lips, that it took Draco’s breath awa

“Come to my chambers tonight, after lights out,” Draco said, even though it was so very dangerous. Not because he was Harry Potter but because he _wasn’t_.

Harry pulled his head back a space to look at Draco. Draco met his gaze.

“Yeah,” Harry said on the breath before he kissed Draco again.

* * *

Harry slipped out of his room just as the door’s Locking spell activated and the lights in the sleeping quarters were extinguished. From his four months of working in the Manor as a slave, Harry was able to navigate his way to the kitchens in the dark. Although he didn’t have a Stinging Trace spell attached to his Shackling spell, as the “blood traitor” slaves did to deter them from attempting to use magic against the Suppression spells, as he was still a Muggle to everyone but Draco and Hermione, Harry didn’t dare risk using a _Lumos_ to light his way. He hurried along the corridors and pulled the door open to the kitchens just enough so that he could squeeze through.

Once inside the kitchens, Harry glided seamlessly through the wall next to the row of cabinets full of dishware into the corridors behind the walls that the elves used to stay out of sight whenever they could. The maze of hidden corridors extended out of the kitchens to all over the house; Harry pointed his steps in the direction that would take him to Draco’s rooms.

Five minutes later, he glided out of the wall and into Draco’s antechamber. Now that he was standing here, Harry suddenly felt unsure of himself. He had thought it was the best way to remain undetected, but just appearing in Draco’s bed chambers felt intrusive. There was nothing to do about it now though, so Harry took tentative steps towards the main chamber.

Although he’d been in Draco’s chambers a number of times carrying out various elf duties that elves were too otherwise occupied to complete, Harry had never really had the opportunity to truly absorb the rooms.

The antechamber in which he had come out of the wall was nothing more than a kind of lobby: grey and white marble floors, grey walls with white trim and ceiling, a medium-sized, plain black entrée table, and a rectangular mirror in a simple black frame hanging on the wall over the table. An archway made of the same white trim that lined the walls and ceiling separated the antechamber from what appeared to be the living/sitting area. The grey and white marble flooring continued here, except that there was a large grey rug (Demiguise hair? Harry wondered. He remembered Dumbledore showing them pictures.) covering the majority of it. A black stone fireplace – not lit as it was the middle of July – made up the entirety of the wall opposite to where Harry was standing. Next to the fireplace wall was another archway of white trim, which Harry assumed led to Draco’s bedroom. A large black couch of some wizarding equivalent of leather (Harry didn’t think it was dragonhide. It didn’t look like his gardening gloves.) sat at a ninety-degree angle to the fireplace and across from a wall that looked to be mostly windows. A large square coffee table of the same simple design as the entrée table was situated in front of the couch. A small round footstool of the same material as the couch was wedged in between the two. The drapes on the wall of windows were a dark green (Slytherin colors, Harry realized with a start, having seen the crests of the former four houses of Hogwarts and knowing that Death Eaters were largely comprised of those from that house.) A liquor cart was against the wall behind the couch, stocked with an assortment of wines, firewhiskeys, and various Muggle liquors. An armchair of the same color and material as the curtains was across from the fireplace but angled towards the couch, presumably so conversations could be had comfortably. Tiny balls of light floated just off the ceiling from wall to wall like a blanket of stars. There were black side tables matching the coffee table placed on either side of the couch and the armchair. A painting of a tiny Draco Malfoy flying on a young Hyperion (the painting Hyperion was half the size he was today) over the Manor fields was hung on the wall behind the green armchair. The Abraxan floated on tiny wings a few feet off the ground, seven-or-eight-year old Draco on his back grinning with delight and clinging to a rope tied around the animal’s neck. Harry assumed either Narcissa or Lucius was on the other end of the rope, out-of-frame.

“That was painted on my eighth birthday,” Draco said.

Harry spun around. Draco’s lips were tugged up in a small smile. His long, lean body was dressed in expensive-looking loungewear; his shoulder was inclined against the doorframe to his bedroom and his legs were crossed at the ankles. He had a glass of amber liquid in his hand. Harry thought it might have been firewhiskey but may have been the standard Muggle variety.

“You said he was a seventh birthday present.”

“He was,” Draco answered, walking into the sitting room and swirling his drink in his glass. “But I had to learn to ride and fly him first before my parents would let me _actually_ ride and fly him. That required a year’s worth of practice on conjured and dummy Abraxans.”

Harry grinned. “I bet that drove you absolutely _mad_.”

“Like a niffler in a gold vault. I was bouncing off the walls practically that entire year. They almost had to slap a Sedation spell on me.” Draco placed his glass on the table between the couch and armchair and sauntered over to Harry.

Harry’s face hurt from smiling so wide, even as his eyes tracked Draco’s movements. “I wish I could have seen that,” Harry said, half laughing.

“I was a spoiled little thing.” Draco stopped inches from Harry, his hands settling on Harry’s hips.

“And you’re not now?” Harry teased, his tongue sticking out between his teeth, and his arms coming up to drape around Draco’s neck.

Draco smirked and tipped his head down to capture Harry’s lips in a claiming kiss.

* * *

“Your eyes are so green,” Draco commented, as they lay together after, sated and happy. Their legs were tangled under the covers and they were sharing a pillow, their noses almost brushing. Their fingers were laced where their hands rested on the bed between them; Draco’s other arm was curled atop Harry’s head, while Harry’s other arm was bent against his chest.

“Like your sheets,” Harry ribbed. Draco shook with laughter. The Egyptian cotton sheets on his four-poster bed were indeed a bright shade of Slytherin green. “Dumbledore said they’re the same as my mother’s. Lily Potter’s.”

Draco’s fingers carded through Harry’s hair. “Do you miss them?” Draco couldn’t imagine not having his parents, although recently he’d been feeling suffocated by his father. His mother he would miss dearly.

“I didn’t know them,” Harry admitted. “The Grangers were my parents. I miss them a lot. But it helps having Hermione.”

Draco’s stomach twisted guiltily. “I’m so sorry, Harry.”

Harry squeezed his hand. “You were just doing your job.”

Draco frowned. That excuse or reason or whatever it could be considered had started to leave a bitter taste in his mouth recently and sound hollow to his ears. His whole life he’d had the Dark Lord’s – and his father’s – ideals about blood purity, the inferiority of Muggles, and “Magic is Might” ingrained in him and Draco had just blindly gone along with it, without ever stopping to consider whether he actually believed in those ideals. He supposes if you’d asked him five months ago, the answer would have been a resounding yes, he did share those ideals, that same disdain for Muggles and those called blood traitors. But these last three months – four, really – that he’d spent getting to know John Granger first, then Harry, had shifted his mindset irrevocably. Muggles and so-called blood traitors were just like purebloods: they were parents, children, brothers, sisters, had dreams and ambitions, and were, most importantly, human. Did they deserve to be treated the way this world did just because they had no magic or because they had sympathy for Muggles? With fear, chains, torture, slavery, and certain death? Harry definitely didn’t. And, though he’d only met her a handful of times in Pansy’s chambers, Draco suspected neither did Hermione Granger. He suspected none of the prisoners or slaves shackled at his command did. Nor any of those hundreds he had turned over to the Dark Lord without a second thought.

“Hey. What’re you thinking about?” Harry asked softly, the fingers of his free hand tracing lightly across Draco’s cheeks, chin, nose.

Draco’s eyes fluttered closed at the touch, focusing on the feel of Harry’s fingers against his skin to stave off the wave of nausea that was threatening at his throat. After a beat, Draco opened his eyes. Harry’s brow was furrowed in concern.

“Just that I wish you could stay the night,” Draco said. It was the truth: with Harry a slave, he had to be back in his sleeping quarters before sunrise, when the Locking spells deactivated and the slaves’ day began.

Something in Harry’s eyes told Draco he didn’t believe that was the extent of it, which of course it wasn’t, but Harry didn’t press, choosing instead to roll forward towards Draco and slot their lips together.

Draco accepted Harry’s weight, wrapping his arms around Harry’s waist, and allowed Harry to kiss the dark thoughts from his mind.

* * *

For risk of being caught, they agreed that Harry couldn’t visit Draco’s chambers every night or even on any regular basis.

(“I could always promote you to my chamber slave and require that you be available during the night in the event I require sustenance,” Draco suggested, as they stood kissing lazily by the entrance to the hidden corridor that would take Harry back to the kitchen and his quarters. The argument was compelling but would raise suspicions, as only Pansy and Narcissa had chamber slaves, and as Draco had Dobby for that purpose.)

Instead, they kept to their in-between-meals kitchen dates except now they were spent more often than not making out and trading quick hand jobs and/or blow jobs rather than talking and sharing fish and chips. This, of course, was only slightly less dangerous – if not more – than Harry sneaking into Draco’s chambers; anyone – human or elf – could walk (or Apparate) in at any time. But Draco didn’t seem bothered by the peril and who was Harry to argue when Draco’s lips and hands were so good at distracting him?

Two weeks later, Harry was busy at the sink washing and drying while waiting for Draco, when suddenly there were arms around his waist.

“Happy birthday,” Draco whispered in his ear.

Harry grinned, swiped the dishtowel over his hands to dry them, and turned around in Draco’s arms, draping his own around Draco’s neck.

“How’d you know it was my birthday?”

“Everyone knows Harry Potter’s birthday is the 31st of July. It’s in the history books.”

“Get out. You’re barking,” Harry said with a laugh.

“Also, you told me last week,” Draco said, a grin stretching his face, as he bent down to kiss Harry.

When they broke apart, Draco Conjured a piece of chocolate cake, which they shared over two bottles of butterbeer and an agreement that they would risk Harry sneaking to Draco’s chambers that night.

++++++++++

Harry was chopping vegetables when his leg started burning. Alarmed, Harry snapped his hand to his thigh, thinking it had somehow caught fire, and realized with a jolt that it was the Order coin transmitting a message. Excusing himself to the stock room under the pretext of obtaining more tomatoes, Harry pulled out the coin. The words “TONIGHT. SAME TIME. SAME PLACE.” were engraved on the face and then vanished when he had finished reading it.

Harry swore under his breath. With Hermione and Lupin presumably having been notified as well, and the real possibility of the Order sieging the Manor if he didn’t turn up, Harry had no choice but to cancel his plans with Draco. Except – it was almost dinner time and Harry typically didn’t see Draco for the rest of the day after their kitchen visits and it was too risky for Harry to go around the Manor searching for him, let alone talk to each other. They could barely keep their hands and lips off each other these days and god only knows what their faces would give away if someone happened to observe them. There was nothing for it; Harry had to stand up Draco and hope he could find time tomorrow to explain and make it up to him.

“Are you alright?” Hermione whispered as they hurried to the stockroom five hours later. “You seem morose.”

He hadn’t told her anymore about Draco since the night he revealed his identity, and she hadn’t asked, perhaps presuming that they – or at least Harry – would have been turned over to Voldemort by now if Draco hadn’t decided to keep his secret.

“Just wondering what this is about,” Harry said, pulling open the trapdoor. Hermione gave him a funny look but let Harry motion her down the stairs.

They found the cave quickly. Lupin was already there waiting for them along with, to Harry’s (but not Hermione’s?) surprise, Ron. Harry, Hermione, and Ron wordlessly touched the rock as Lupin activated it and all four of them were pulled through space, landing a minute later in the cabin.

When Harry caught his bearings, the first thing he noticed was a “HAPPEE BIRTHDAE, HARRY!” banner hanging over the unlit fireplace. The second thing he noticed was that the cabin appeared to be much more populated than it had been the previous two times he had visited. The third thing he noticed was that the second thing he noticed wasn’t entirely accurate: most of the cabin was occupied by a man so large his head was stooped to avoid hitting the ceiling even though he was sitting on the floor. Harry hoped he wasn’t gaping rudely. Once over his shock, Harry realized that Kingsley, Tonks, and Moody were also present, along with a kind but haggard-looking man with red hair whom Harry assumed was related to Ron. Just as Harry was wondering where Sirius was, he appeared from the kitchen bearing in his hands Harry’s favorite dessert: a treacle tart with whipped cream on top and twenty-one candles burning softly.

Harry sat dumbstruck where he had landed as the Order chorused a round of “Happy Birthday”.

“How did you…?” Harry asked after blowing out the candles.

“It was Hermione’s idea,” Lupin said. “She found me in the kitchens last week while you were in the stables and suggested it. I arranged it with Sirius. Our extra guests wanted a chance to meet and celebrate with you.”

“It’s your first birthday without Mum and Dad,” Hermione explained softly. “I thought you would like a celebration to take your mind off it.”

It wasn’t the celebration Harry had wanted or expected tonight, but he warmed with a rush of affection for his sister and pulled her into a hug. When Harry broke from the embrace, the large man reached out a hand the size of rubbish bin lid and said, “Hon’r’d ter meetcha, Harry. Name’s Rubeus Hagrid.”

“It’s nice to meet you too,” Harry said, overwhelmed by the sheer size of the man, but shook his hand.

“I’s was the one that carried yer away fr’m yer parents house,” Hagrid said proudly. Harry understood Hagrid meant the Potters’ the night of Halloween 1981.

“Thank you,” Harry said, unsure how he was meant to respond, but Hagrid seem to impossibly puff at the praise.

Saving Harry the trouble of figuring out how to begin a conversation with Hagrid, the other man Harry didn’t know introduced himself.

“Arthur Weasley,” he said, confirming Harry’s earlier suspicions. Harry shook his hand, as Ron said, “My dad.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were in the Order?” Harry asked Ron, quickly muttering the spell to allow Ron, Hagrid, and Arthur Weasley to see his true face.

Ron shrugged. “We try and keep it as quiet as possible. Knew I’d recognized you, though,” Ron said proudly. “Dad told me vaguely what you looked like.”

Ron turned to his father, who had a hand on his son’s shoulder. They looked happy to be together even for this brief time. Harry left them to their reunion, wandering over to where Sirius was cutting generous slices of tart.

“Happy birthday, Harry,” Sirius said, pulling him into a gruff hug and handing him a piece of the tart.

Lupin parroted his friend with a quick, “Happy birthday,” and side-armed hug.

“You know, we all celebrated your first birthday together,” Lupin said after a minute. “Us,” he indicated himself and Sirius, “James, Lily, and Dumbledore. “Sirius bought you a toy broom. Lily almost blasted his head off when you zoomed into a lamp.”

Sirius cackled at the memory. Harry swallowed thickly, overwhelmed by this piece of information about the life he couldn’t remember.

“’appy ‘irthday,” Tonks said through a mouthful of tart from where she was sitting on the couch, breaking the moment.

Hermione was next to her, also eating a piece of tart, and was engaged in a quiet, almost intimate conversation with Ron. It appeared Harry wasn’t the only one keeping secrets.

Harry settled on the floor, his back against the fireplace. Although his mind wandered to Draco’s bedroom and his stomach sank at what Draco thought about why Harry hadn’t shown, Harry listened to the other stories these new friends told of Lily and James and went to bed that night thinking it had been a birthday he would never forget.

* * *

At first when Harry hadn’t appeared in his chambers, Draco assumed he had deemed it too risky and hadn’t been able to get away. But as the night wore on, doubt started niggling in Draco’s mind – about what he wasn’t exactly sure – and by morning Draco had convinced himself that he’d gotten his wires crossed with Harry.

After a fitful night’s sleep, Draco woke up in a bad mood, which persisted through breakfast and Squad training. He knew both his parents noticed his temper, but he managed to dodge their inquiries by grabbing a broom and taking to the sky. The fresh August air did nothing to clear his head, so he stomped to the stables to visit with Hyperion. He realized his mistake as soon as he opened the stables’ door. Harry was at the other end, dumping oats into Hyperion’s empty food bucket. Draco considered slipping out before Harry could spot him, but he was too late.

Harry turned his head, saw Draco, and grinned brightly.

Draco took a deep breath and stalked towards Harry. Harry’s grin faltered at the expression Draco was sure on his face.

“I am so sorry about last night,” Harry said before Draco had even stopped walking. “I didn’t mean to stand you up, but Hermione wanted to spend the evening together before lights out since it was my first birthday without our parents, and I couldn’t get out before the Locking spells activated.”

Draco sagged with relief and his bad mood instantly dissipated.

“Did you think something else?” Harry asked, a hand lifted to Draco’s cheek.

“I thought maybe I’d gotten signals crossed,” Draco admitted quietly, averting his eyes.

Harry ducked his head to catch Draco’s eye. “Hey, no. It was my fault. I wanted to tell you, but I can’t exactly wander around the house looking for you. Or even be seen talking to you. For what it’s worth, I was thinking about you all night.”

A smile tugged at Draco’s lips. “Yeah?”

Harry nodded and kissed him softly. “I’ll come tonight. I promise.”

Draco pulled Harry into a hug, his nose buried in Harry’s hair.

++++++++

Draco was lounging on his couch when Harry slipped through the wall into his antechamber. He lifted himself up on his elbows to watch Harry walk casually through into the sitting room and over to the couch. His throat caught when Harry silently straddled him and pulled him into a bruising kiss. Draco tipped his head back, his hands claiming on Harry’s hips. The angle uncomfortable on his back, Draco slid his arms around Harry’s waist and fell backwards gently onto the arm of couch. Harry’s arms framed his head, trapping Draco completely under him. The feeling of Harry wholly enveloping him was dizzying.

“What was that for?” Draco gasped, pulling away for breath.

“Apologies for last night,” Harry said, his fingers carding through Draco’s hair, breaking it free of its gel. Harry stretched his legs out, covering Draco’s body entirely with his, slid one arm around Draco’s back, and let the other fall onto Draco’s chest along with his head, his hand over Draco’s heart.

Draco curled his arm around Harry’s waist. His other covered Harry’s on his chest. The angry red mark of the Shackling spell stood out on Harry’s wrist. Draco laced their fingers together and lifted Harry’s hand to his eye level.

“Does it hurt?” Draco asked.

“Not really. You learn quickly where not to go so the Stinging spell doesn’t activate.”

Draco felt the blood drain from his face. How had he lived all these years not realizing what kind of torture he was inflicting on those he brought into the Manor? He muttered the counter-curse under his breath.

“What are you doing?” Harry shifted his head to lean his chin on Draco’s chest, his eyes on his wrists where there were no longer marks.

“You’re not a slave in here, Harry.” He was certain that Harry knew he wasn’t, but it was important to Draco that Harry hear it from him.

“I didn’t think I was. I’m here because I _want_ to be here.”

Draco’s hand slid up Harry’s back to tangle in Harry’s hair, fingers brushing it away from Harry’s face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, his lips stretching into a smile, his green eyes sparkling like emeralds.

“I love you.” Draco hadn’t meant to say it, hadn’t even realized it until he’d said it, but now that it was out, he knew it was the unvarnished truth.

Harry’s eyes widened slightly behind his glasses. Before Draco could begin to panic, Harry pushed up for a claiming kiss.

“I love you too,” Harry said when he pulled back.

Draco’s heart stuttered in his chest. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than for the world to be different than what it was.

+++++++++

August rolled by in a carefully constructed routine: their visits in the kitchens every other day, planned happenings in the stables, Harry sneaking out to Draco’s chambers twice a week, but never on the same two days. True to his word, Draco always removed Harry’s Shackling spell immediately upon Harry’s entrance into his chambers, and he always felt guilty and more than a little bit nauseous when he reactivated it before Harry slipped back through the wall. He even seriously considered leaving it off altogether and putting fake marks on Harry’s wrists to keep the appearance of the spell.

(“I can’t let you do that,” Harry said when Draco brought the idea up to him. “But I appreciate the offer.”)

The more time Draco spent with and around Harry, Draco became certain he no longer shared the ideals of Voldemort (he couldn’t bring himself to think of Him as the Dark Lord anymore) and the Death Eaters, his father included. The Dark Mark, which was once a point of pride, now burned bright in accusation, an ugly, constant reminder of his complicity in the horrors of this world, horrors in which he no longer wanted to participate. Thus, although his focus stabilized, Hunting Muggles had become an horrific chore. On more than one occasion, he’d nearly been sick over it. It was after one such occasion in the middle of August that Harry asked him about it.

“Are you alright?” Harry offered him the usual plate of fish and chips, but Draco had no appetite. When he made no move to eat, Harry swiped his hand over Draco’s cheek, brushing a stray piece of hair back from Draco’s face. “You look pale.”

“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” Draco said. Harry’s hand dropped immediately; Draco caught it in one of his. “Sorry. I didn’t mean us. I meant the Muggle hunting.” The words tasted bitter on his tongue.

“Oh.”

“It’s making me sick, Harry. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I dread getting out of bed on the mornings when Hunts are scheduled. Muggles don’t deserve the way the Death Eaters treat them. They’re people like us. Shackling and torturing them for what? Because they don’t have magic? So what? Does that really make them any less human than those of us who do?” Panic and bile rose in Draco’s chest and hot tears swam in Draco’s eyes, making Harry blurry.

* * *

It was so unusual for Draco to be anything other than composed (except when Harry took him apart in the privacy of Draco’s chambers), but Draco looked and sounded so lost, so broken, that Harry’s heart ached painfully for him. It must be a terrible thing to live believing one thing for your whole life and realize one the day the falsity of it, the speciousness. Harry pulled Draco into a hug, Draco’s head falling against Harry’s chest and his arms sliding around Harry’s waist.

“It’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay,” Harry soothed, petting Draco’s hair. “I promise. I have an idea.” He dropped a kiss onto Draco’s head. “Give me a couple days to see if it’ll work.”

++++++++

“I want to make sure I heard you correctly,” Sirius said. “You want to bring Draco Malfoy, son of the Head of the Muggle Hunting Squad, leader and commander of the Muggle hunts, _here_ to our safe house?” His words were slow and deliberate, as if he were talking to a child. Harry pursed his lips, annoyed.

“Yes. He’s not like that anymore.”

Sirius barked out a laugh and Lupin swore under his breath. Harry knew they thought he was being naïve.

“And how do you know that?” Lupin asked.

Harry braced himself. “Because we’re in love.”

Sirius and Lupin gawped at him.

“ _Come again_?” Lupin asked. Then before Harry could respond, “Is that where you’ve been going at night before the Locking spells activate? To his chambers?”  
  


Harry turned to him, wide-eyed, panic blooming in his chest.

“Oh yes. I’ve noticed you sneaking out.” Lupin pointed an accusing finger at him. “Merlin know who else has. You’re lucky you haven’t been strung up yet. How do you know Malfoy isn’t playing you, getting close to you to lure you into a trap?”

They were the same warnings Hermione had given him. “I showed Draco my true face weeks ago. If he was going to turn me over to You-Know-Who, he would have done it already,” Harry countered.

Neither Sirius nor Lupin argued but both still looked skeptical. Harry plowed on. “Look, he’s realized what a piece of shit You-Know-Who is and how shitty the policies are that he’s peddling. He doesn’t want to do the Muggle hunting anymore. They’re making him sick!” Harry addressed Lupin. “Have you not noticed that he’s not eating? How sallow he’s looked recently?” Lupin nodded once, reluctant to admit Harry had a point. “Did you think he was doing that for fun?” Harry was angry now, defensive. “Dumbledore left me, left us, with a mission, which, in case you hadn’t noticed, isn’t getting very far. Maybe with Draco’s help we can get things moving. I trust him. With my life. Please just give him a chance to prove himself. Let him earn your trust too.”

Sirius and Lupin stared at each other, sharing a silent conversation. After a long minute, Lupin sighed. “Fine. We’ll give him a chance. Bring him with you to the portkey tomorrow.”

Harry grinned, triumphant.

* * *

“Meet me in the kitchens just after lights out,” Harry said against his lips. They were in the stables, making out, hidden from view by Hyperion. Draco was grateful his Abraxan couldn’t talk and tell tales of their escapades.

He must have given Harry a funny look because Harry said, “I told you. I had an idea on how to help you.”

“Okay,” Draco agreed, before covering Harry’s mouth again with his own.

++++++++

Although it would not necessarily be suspicious if he was seen going to the kitchens after lights out, Draco erred on the side of caution and took the corridors in the walls that Harry used. He came out into the kitchen where Harry was waiting for him.

Harry gave him a smile. “Come.” Draco walked over and took the hand Harry was offering.

Harry led him into the corridors behind the kitchen to the stock room, through a trapdoor Draco had no idea existed, down a staircase, and into tunnels that apparently ran under the Manor and out into the grounds. Flaming torches lit their path.

“I – I had no idea,” Draco said wonderingly.

“That’s the point,” Harry responded, pulling him into a cave. The werewolf slave was waiting for them.

“Draco, this is Remus Lupin. You might have seen him around the Manor.”

Lupin gave him a curt nod and held out a rock. Harry put a finger to it and motioned for Draco to do the same. Lupin muttered some activation spell (Did the Suppression spell tied to his Shackling spell not work down here? For that matter, did the Shackling Spell itself not work down here? Draco wondered, strongly suspecting it didn’t, as neither Harry nor Lupin appeared to be in pain from the attached Stinging spell. He wouldn’t be surprised: its parameters were for the Manor and the Manor’s grounds. These tunnels were neither.). In the seconds before he felt the familiar tug on his navel, Draco realized the rock was a portkey.

They landed on a rug in what appeared to be some kind of wood cabin, which was occupied by a black man, a man with a glass eye, and –

“You’re Sirius Black,” Draco addressed the man with scraggly black hair and handsome face. “You’re cousins with my mother.”

Harry looked at him quizzically.

“What of it?” Sirius barked, startling Draco.

Looking around, Draco realized these people clearly didn’t trust him. Why should they? Evidently his face showed something of his thoughts because Harry squeezed his hand.

“Draco, this is Kingsley Shacklebolt.” Harry indicated the black man. “And this is Alastor Moody.” The man with the glass eye whirring around in his head nodded his acknowledgment.

“What is this?” Draco asked.

"We’re the Order of the Phoenix,” Lupin said, after a beat of reluctance and what appeared to be a pleading look from Harry.

“They’re – _we’re_ – an underground resistance movement,” Harry explained. “Dumbledore started it when You-Know-Who first came to power in the years before he killed my parents.”

“You’re behind the Muggles escaping from my Hunts,” Draco realized. They all seemed to stiffen and bristle slightly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to accuse you. I just didn’t know how they were getting away. I’m glad that mystery’s been solved, although I’m still curious about how you knew who we were going after. I won’t ask you to divulge your source though. But I want to be another source.” He was determined to earn their trust, and this was the best way he knew how. “I’ll give you names of certain families that appear on my lists so you can get them to safety. I’m sorry that I can’t give you all of them – I would like to, believe me, I would if I could – but that would be an immediate tip off and someone else would just take my place. The best way to help the Muggles is to keep doing what you’re doing. Random sabotages of the Hunts with me in charge.”

Draco’s offer seemed to appease the Order members, although Draco still sensed some uneasy suspicion, and they spent an hour working out the details of the espionage.

++++++++

As promised, for the next two weeks, Draco passed along information to Lupin about one or two Muggle families on his list for each Hunt; it was enough information for the Order to get them to safety before the Squad arrived and yet not enough for it to be suspicious, for it to still appear random. If the escapes were noticed, Draco could truthfully point to the slew of escapes from earlier in the year, which Draco now understood had been the work of the Order as well. Draco knew he was playing with fire sabotaging his own Hunts, but his conscience wouldn’t let him do otherwise. Working with the Order felt good, felt _right_ , felt like he was doing something decent with his life in a way, in retrospect, his work on the Squad never had. For his part, Draco pretended to be frustrated that Muggles were evading capture; he even put on a show reprimanding his Squad members on the training field while Lucius looked on.

Besides the names of Muggles on his list, Draco fed the Order as much intelligence on Voldemort and the Death Eaters as he could. He wasn’t completely privy to all the goings on within the Death Eaters – he only directly received information regarding the Hunts – but his Father liked to talk over dinner and Draco filed away tidbits he could discern to provide to Lupin. With September 1st two days away, and with it the start of a new year at Hogwarts, Voldemort and plans were in full swing preparing for the recruitment of new children into the Death Eaters. The Order hoped to cut off at least a portion of the incoming pool of Death Eater youths.

“It won’t be easy,” Draco told them. “A large portion of the children at Hogwarts are children of the Sacred Twenty-Eight pureblood families. The school is like a fortress. There are more protections than the deepest levels of Gringotts. But there aren’t enough pureblooded children in Britain to sustain the school each year. For years now they’ve been importing children of distant relatives and children of foreign purebloods who share their ideals and those that don’t in the hopes of at least indoctrinating the children into the Death Eater ways. Even those from Britain can’t Apparate or Floo directly into Hogwarts. They have to take the train into Hogsmeade station and then take carriages up to the school. The three upper years typically reside at the school year round to increase the intensity of their training, but the younger four years will be on the train.”

“It’s the same as when we were there,” Sirius said. “The train part, not the O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. level students living at the school year-round,” Sirius clarified.

“Then that’s where we’ll cut them off,” Lupin said. “That train will never it make it to the school.”

++++++++

His father cornered him in his study the next morning, his head bent over the lists for the next three Hunts. He was trying to determine which names would be the most strategic to give to Lupin.

“Draco, I’m still hearing reports of Muggles escaping under your watch.”

Draco bristled. “They’re not escaping _under my watch_ , Father. They’re already gone when we get there. There’s obviously a mole in the Squad. I am attempting to uncover the culprit.” He hoped he sounded convincing.

“Very well, Draco. Oh, also, we’ve recently received information about a resistance movement known as the Order of the Phoenix, which we believe is being led by none other than Harry Potter.” Draco’s heart jumped into his throat, panic blooming quick and heavy. “We also believe he may be hiding somewhere in the Manor or on the Manor’s grounds. Your Squad will be leading the search. I and the Dark Lord expect your full concentration. Nothing else will be done today until Harry Potter is apprehended and handed over to the Dark Lord. Is that understood?”

Draco looked up at his father, schooling his features as best as possible with his heart pounding a drum against his chest. “Yes, Father.”

“Good. I will see you on the training fields in thirty minutes with a fully assembled Squad,” Lucius commanded and left with a flourish.

Draco waited until he thought Lucius would be gone and then bolted out of his study. How had Voldemort found out about Harry? Draco swore under his breath and hurried down the corridor. He had to find Harry. Where would he be at this hour? The stables. He turned on the spot into the crushing nothingness of Apparition.

Draco reappeared in the stables with a loud _pop_. Harry turned at the noise, startled.

“Draco? I didn’t think we were meeting here today,” Harry said, as Draco hurried over to him.

“My father knows you’re here. We have to go.”

“What?” Harry’s face paled but he didn’t move.

“I don’t know how he found out, but he just came to my study to tell me that me and my Squad’s supposed to be leading a search party for you in half an hour on the Manor grounds and in the Manor.” Draco said in a rush, trying to make Harry understand the urgency of their situation. “Please, we have to go _now_.” Draco pleaded, waving away Harry’s shackles. He was close to tears.

Just then a shot of red light exploded the wall behind Harry. Draco whipped around. Lucius was standing in the doorway of the stables, his wand outstretched. Before Draco could pull his wand out of his robes, Lucius sent a blue light soaring straight at Harry’s chest.

Harry gasped, his hand reaching out for Draco to steady himself. “The Glamour’s gone. I can feel it,” Harry said, his eyes wide in panic. “I don’t know how! Only I was supposed to be able to remove it!”

Lucius stalked over to where they were standing. Draco placed himself in front of Harry like a shield, Harry’s hands coming up to cling tightly to Draco’s hips. His heart was about to beat itself out of his chest.

“Did you think you could fool me, boy?” Lucius sneered. Draco didn’t know which one of them he meant. Maybe both. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice – that the _Dark Lord_ – wouldn’t notice that you were letting scum disappear from under your nose?” Him then. “Did you really think you could carry on an affair with slave filth under my roof without my knowing about it?” Shit. They thought they’d been so careful. Harry’s hands tightened painfully on his hips. “Did you really believe you could be allowed to continue in the Dark Lord’s favor?”

“I don’t care!” Draco shouted. “I don’t want _the Dark Lord_ ’s” – he spit the words – “favor anymore! Treating Muggles as less than human beings, less than house elves! All because they don’t have magic? It’s not their fault and they shouldn’t be punished for it! You and _Him_ all high and mighty about blood purity. It’s disgusting,” Draco hissed, his blood boiling.

His father’s face turned pale, which turned rapidly to a livid purple. “ _How dare you! Avada –_ ”

Draco’s eyes went wide with horror in the second before Harry shouted, “ _Petrificus Totalus_!” Lucius went rigid with paralysis before he could finish the spell. Draco watched as his father fell backwards onto the hay-littered floor with a thud.

Draco had never been more grateful that Harry could do wandless magic than at that moment. “He tried to –” Draco said, staring at his father’s prone form on the ground. His father had tried to kill him.

“I know,” Harry said, spinning him around. “Hey. I need you to focus. You were right. We have to go now.”

Draco snapped his focus to Harry. His Dark Mark burned white-hot on his skin. “Shit. You-Know-Who is on his way, if he isn’t already here.”

“Hermione,” Harry croaked as Draco wrapped his arms around him.

“No time,” Draco urged and turned them into nothingness.

* * *

When he came back to himself, Harry saw that they were not in the Order’s cabin safe house. They were standing in the hallway of some sort of house. “Where are we?”

“Grimmauld Place. It’s a Black family house. ‘The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black’ Aunt Bella called it,” Draco said.

“Won’t they find us here?”

“It actually belonged to Sirius’s parents. No one’s been here since I was a child, as far as I know. They probably think I don’t even remember it. I think we should be safe here for a while. But just to be sure.” Draco pulled out his wand. “Homenum Revelio!”

Nothing happened. No one was here. Harry saw Draco’s shoulders sag in relief. So, he _was_ worried someone nefarious might be hiding in the house. Draco took Harry’s hand, and led him past a painting of a slumbering old woman. “That’s Aunt Walburga,” Draco whispered. Harry assumed he was trying not to wake her.

As they went deeper into the house, they passed a room with a giant tapestried family tree. Harry pulled Draco into the room to look. “Why are some names burned off?”

“Offended the family somehow or other. My Aunt Andromeda” – he pointed at a burned spot next to his mother’s name – “married a Muggle named Ted Tonks.”

“Tonks?” Harry asked, excited. “There’s a Nymphadora Tonks in the Order.”

Draco nodded. “That would be their daughter. My cousin. This” – he pointed to another burned off spot opposite Andromeda’s – “is where Sirius used to be. His offense was being sorted into Gryffindor.”

“That’s it?” Harry asked, offended on his godfather’s behalf.

Draco shrugged. “I’m sure it was that he didn’t want to be a part of the family’s blood purity parade, but that’s always been the family line. I wonder what mine will be.”

Harry’s eyes followed Draco’s. A portrait of Draco was embroidered on the end of the line attached to the line connecting Narcissa Black and Lucius Malfoy. He looked to be a few years younger than Draco now, perhaps seventeen or eighteen. Underneath Draco’s portrait was written his birthday: 5 June 1980 with a line protruding sideways to an empty space where a death date would eventually go.

Harry tugged on Draco’s hand to pull him out of his thoughts. “Come on.” Draco followed him out of the tapestry room but took the lead again in the hallway, leading Harry deeper into the house. When they came to the end of the hallway where there was a staircase that led upstairs and one that led down, Harry realized that Grimmauld Place was a three-story split level. They had Apparated into the main level.

“The kitchen is downstairs. Bedrooms are upstairs,” Draco explained.

The words were barely out of Draco’s mouth when Harry’s scar seared with pain. Harry gasped and bent his head against Draco’s shoulder for support. He closed his eyes and focused his mind on Occlumency the way Dumbledore had trained him, but the pain had never been so acute. Harry hoped it was enough.

“Harry?! _Harry!_ ” Draco’s panicked voice grounded him, and he was able to close his mind off to the pain. “Are you alright? What happened?” Draco’s eyes were wide with fear. “Did my father’s spell hurt you?”

“I need to tell you something,” Harry said. Up until now, he had kept his connection to Voldemort and his mission from Draco. But he couldn't keep the truth from him any longer. "Can we go to the sitting room we passed?”

Draco followed wordlessly and dropped onto the couch next to Harry. When they were settled, Harry laced their fingers together, took a deep breath, and asked, “Do you know what a Horcrux is?” Draco shook his head. “It’s a magical object used to store a portion of your soul so you can't die.”

“Oh. I’ve heard rumors about those, but I didn’t think they could actually be made.”

“They can. With murder and very dark magic. You-Know-Who made six.” Draco gaped at him in horror. “Or at least he planned to make six. He actually made seven, though he’s unaware of the last one. The night he killed my parents, he accidentally made me a Horcrux.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I have a piece of You-Know-Who inside me and because of it I can feel what he feels and sometimes see what he sees, if I don't block the connection in time. Just now I felt his anger that I got away and that you betrayed him. I've never felt such strong emotions from him.” Draco blinked owlishly at him. “It also means he can't die until all the Horcruxes are destroyed. Including me. Dumbledore destroyed five of them. Other than me, Nagini is the only one left to destroy. Dumbledore 's mission was for me to finish the job.”

“So, you're just going to let Him kill you?" Draco asked, his voice hard. Harry knew he was upset.

“I have to.”

Draco pulled his hand out of Harry's and stood up. He rounded on Harry. “No! No, you don't!”

“He can never be killed if I don't,” Harry reminded gently.

“I don't care! We'll run away together!” Draco said hysterically. “We could – we could go to the States! He hasn’t gotten over there yet! Ask MACUSA for asylum!”

Harry got up and pulled Draco into a hug. Draco was stiff in his arms but buried his nose in Harry’s neck. After a long minute, Draco's arms slid around Harry's waist. Harry held Draco tighter when he felt hot tears on his neck. With a shock, Harry realized Draco was crying. Harry pressed comforting kisses into Draco's golden hair.

When Draco seemed calmer Harry pulled away a bit to look at him. His still-closed eyes were puffy, and his face was tear-stained. Harry hadn't meant to distress Draco with the truth, but he had needed to hear it.

“I don't want to lose you,” Draco said so quietly Harry almost missed it.

Harry's heart cracked. He took Draco's face in his hands. “Hey. Look at me.” Slowly, Draco opened his eyes, red from crying. “I don't want to lose you either. And I don't want to die,” Harry assured. “If there were any other way, I would take it in a heartbeat. But Dumbledore was absolutely certain this is the only way to get rid of You-Know-Who. It's what he trained me for my whole life.”

“To die?” Draco sniffed, his mouth curling into an angry, twisted line.

“To sacrifice myself so You-Know-Who can be defeated. To make the world into a place where people can live again.”

Draco closed his eyes again and dropped his forehead against Harry’s. Harry slid his arms around Draco’s neck and closed his own eyes. Harry wasn't sure how long they stood like that, breathing each other in.

At some point, Harry nudged his nose against Draco’s. Draco nudged back, and their noses kissed until Harry tilted his head, turning the Eskimo kiss into a real one. Draco whimpered into Harry’s mouth, his arms curling tighter around Harry's waist. Harry let Draco lead the kiss, take from it what he needed.

Eventually, they broke apart and Harry took Draco to bed.

* * *

After, they napped. Still reeling from Harry’s revelation and the heavy weight of emotions their lovemaking stirred in him, Draco curled up with his back against Harry’s chest, Harry’s arm draped over his waist. He slept fitfully, his dreams plagued by Harry’s death, and his own. Draco must have flipped himself over while he slept, because he woke to Harry watching him, a concerned look on his face.

“How're you feeling?” Harry's fingers brushed his cheek.

“How are you so calm about this?” Draco felt like his heart had been stomped on by a hippogriff.

Harry smiled wryly. “I’ve had ten years to accept it. I didn't mean to pile that on you on top of what happened this morning.”

This morning. When his father had tried to kill him. That felt like a million years ago now.

“Do you want to talk about it? What happened in the stables?”

He didn't, but said, “I always knew I would disappoint my father. Even when my Hunts were perfect, Father always had a reason to criticize me. Although I never thought he'd attempt to kill me.” The words stuck and bile rose in his throat.

“I'm so sorry, Draco. I feel like this is all my fault.”

Draco brushed his knuckles over Harry’s cheek, his thumb tracing the skin under Harry’s eye. “You opened my eyes to the atrocities in which I was blindly playing a part. Please don’t ever feel bad or apologize for that. I’ve never met anyone like you, Harry Potter.” Harry blushed sweetly and Draco couldn’t help but kiss him.

+++++++++

He had fallen asleep again, or at least dozed; it was a midday sun that streamed through the window in the bedroom when Draco awoke again. Harry was perched against the headboard, a small piece of paper in his hand.

“Hey.” Harry smiled down at him. Draco rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

“What is that?” Draco nodded at the paper Harry was holding, as he propped himself up on an elbow.

Harry handed it to him. “‘To the Dark Lord – I know I will be dead long before you read this, but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret. I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I face death in the hope that when you meet your match, you will be mortal once more. - R.A.B.’” Draco read. He looked at Harry.

“I did some looking around while you were sleeping. Sirius lived here with his parents and brother Regulus,” Harry answered to the questioning look Draco knew he was giving Harry. “This was Regulus’s room. Sirius’s is down the hall completely plastered in red and gold.”

Draco scrunched his nose in distaste. “Gryffindor colors.”

Harry laughed. “You might have been right about his offense being a Gryffindor. Anyway, Dumbledore told me that he learned of the Horcruxes from an undeniable source. I bet he meant Regulus. Regulus must have learned about the Horcruxes, or at least the Slytherin locket one, and brought it to Dumbledore for help destroying it.” Then, softer, he said, “You’re not the only one in your family who saw You-Know-Who for what he is and wanted to do something about it.”

Draco swallowed thickly, his eyes focused on his cousin’s note. From stories he’d heard from his mother and aunt, Regulus had been the pride and joy of their parents’ lives, buying into Voldemort’s ideals – and their own – about blood purity and the inferiority of Muggles, Muggleborns, and those with Muggle sympathies. Aunt Walburga and Uncle Orion had boasted to all their friends when Regulus had joined the Death Eaters and received his Dark Mark. That had only been shortly before Voldemort had attacked the Potters. Regulus must have become disenchanted pretty quickly, Draco supposed; the family tree indicated he had died when he was eighteen, only a year before he and Harry had been born. His family must not have known of Regulus’s betrayal, or he too would have been burned off the tree like his brother.

“Sickle for your thoughts?” Harry asked, pulling Draco out of his reverie.

“I was just wondering how Regulus figured it out so quickly when it took me so long.”

Harry hooked a finger under his chin, tipping Draco’s head up so they were looking at each other. “From the way I understand it, You-Know-Who was just starting to come to power and gain followers when our parents were leaving school. They grew up in a world exposed to many different ideals and ways of life. Even if his family was about blood purity, his brother wasn’t. I don’t think they got along, but who knows how much of Sirius’s anti-blood purity ways wormed their way into Regulus’s thoughts. They may have even been there all along subconsciously. You were brainwashed and indoctrinated in those ideas since the moment you were born. There was what? Two years between when you were born and when You-Know-Who came to full power? Your father is second lieutenant to him, Head of the Squad that hunts Muggles for sport. Your aunt is second-in-command. You’ve never known anything else. No one would blame you for being blind to the atrocities.”

“I think about two hundred Muggles would,” Draco said bitterly.

Harry dipped his head to kiss Draco. “You’re a good person, Draco Malfoy. Your path was chosen for you, the same as mine was. Now you get to choose your own way.”

Draco wasn’t entirely that was the truth; he knew there would be consequences for his betrayal, from his father, from Voldemort; he just couldn’t see clearly right now what those consequences might be. Not wanting to worry Harry, he said nothing and instead dropped his head onto Harry’s shoulder. Harry kissed his hair and then leaned his cheek against the top of Draco’s head.

“While you were sleeping, I also sent a message to the Order, letting them know we were safe. I’m sure they’ve heard about what happened by now. I haven’t heard back though.”

Draco knew he was worried about Hermione, and he wanted to say something comforting. But the truth was that he had no clue is she was safe; in fact, if the Order had been infiltrated, he was almost certain she wasn’t. None of them were.

“Are you hungry?” Harry asked. “I could make us some fish and chips.”

“You don’t have to do that. There’s an elf that belongs to this house. Kreacher!” Draco called.

There was a loud _pop_ and the droopy old house-elf that had been in the Black family for centuries appeared at the foot of the bed.

“Master Malfoy,” Kreacher croaked as he bent into a deep bow.

“Yes, Kreacher. Thank you,” Draco said authoritatively. “My guest and I are hungry. Please make us some fish and chips. We will be down shortly. During our stay here, you will do whatever either of us asks.” Kreacher’s eyes, though downcast, kept flicking up to Harry. It occurred to Draco that Kreacher was loyal to all the Blacks, not just the ones that resided in Grimmauld Place. “One more thing, Kreacher. You are not to speak a word of our residence here to my mother or Aunt Bella. Is that understood?”

Kreacher’s face twisted as he worked out the command. “Yes, Master Malfoy,” Kreacher complied with another bow and loud _pop_.

* * *

Harry’s Order coin burned in his pocket while they were in the kitchen eating the fish and chips Kreacher had prepared for them. It had been two days since they had fled from the Manor. Harry had been starting to get concerned. “It’s from Sirius. Hermione, Ron, and Remus made it out of the Manor.” Harry breathed a sigh of relief. “They’re in the cabin. He’s telling us to stay here.”

“How in the world did you get all that from that coin?” With a start, Harry realized he had never shown Draco how he communicated with the Order; the Order had not trusted Draco enough to provide him with his own coin.

“It works like your Dark Mark. We can send messages to each other by pressing it into our hand and thinking our message.” Harry held it in his hand so Draco could see the fading message. “The message says ‘H & R & R’ – that’s Hermione, Ron, and Remus – ‘SAFE. AT SH.’ That’s the safe house. ‘STAY’. That’s self-explanatory. ‘SB’. Sirius Black.” Harry grinned at Draco.

Draco gave him a crooked a smile. “You’re cute when you get all teachy.” Harry’s cheeks warmed at the tease. “So, what? We just stay here? For how long?”

“Dunno,” Harry answered with a shrug. “Does it matter?” Harry’s eyes searched Draco’s. “We can be together here. Unhurried. Open. Like we wanted.” Suddenly, doubt crept into Harry’s mind, his stomach twisting.

Draco’s face softened. “We can’t hide here forever, Harry.”

“You were the one who said we should run away to the States!” Harry scowled.

Draco laced their fingers together. “I know. And I want to, I do. But _you_ also said you have a mission to finish. You can’t do that if we hide away here.”

Draco’s point stung. He _did_ have a mission, but the longer he went on doing nothing, and the more time he spent wrapped up safe in Draco’s arms, the less he wanted to complete it. He had resigned himself for so long to the prospect of dying, he had never considered what it might be like to _live_.

“Do you think they managed to stop the train?” Draco asked, pulling Harry from his thoughts.

“What?”

“It’s September 2nd, I think. Our plan to hijack the train with the students,” Draco clarified. “Do you think they were able to do it?”

Even if they had, would it be enough? Would it make even a dent in Voldemort’s regime? Would anything the Order did be enough? Could anything be enough at this point? Voldemort and his Death Eaters had ruled for so long; would even his own death be enough to wrestle power from him? If Harry and the Order somehow managed to rid the world of Voldemort, would they just end up with Bellatrix or Lucius to take his place? He hadn’t considered the possibility of having to take out anyone more than Voldemort. But now that he did, it seemed absolutely crucial to reclaiming the world that the top Death Eaters be killed, or at least apprehended, as well. Could it be done? Was intercepting children a step in the right direction? Harry couldn’t be certain but supposed it couldn’t make things worse.

“I hope so.”

++++++++++

Sirius appeared in the kitchen about a week later. They were lounging in the sitting room reading books they pilfered from the upstairs library when the warning wards Draco had erected the day after they moved in went off. They looked at each other, panicked, when Harry’s coin burned. Harry fumbled with it.

“Turn off the wards. It’s Sirius.” The screeching stopped with a flick of Draco’s wand and they hurried downstairs.

“Sorry. Sorry. I should have warned you I was coming.”

“Has something happened?” Harry asked, thoughts running wild about Hermione.

Evidently, Sirius sensed his distress because he said, “No. Everyone’s fine. Hermione’s fine. She went with Ron and Arthur to Romania where the rest of the Weasley family is.” Harry started at the news. If he ever saw either Hermione or Ron again, he was going to need to have a chat with them about not telling him they were together.

“Remus thought it would be a good idea if I let you know what’s been going on outside.”

“So, something _has_ happened?” Draco asked.

Sirius sat down at the kitchen table and indicated they should do the same. “You’re little disappearing act at the Manor last week sent You-Know-Who into a tizzy.” Harry shared a look with Draco, remembering Harry’s scar. “Rumor has it he’s gone a bit funny in the head – not that he wasn’t before – especially after the train full of new Hogwarts recruits and half the school population never arrived at Hogsmeade station.” Sirius gave them a devious smile. The plan had worked! The Order had managed to intercept the train. “The Hunting’s gone haphazard and chaotic. Lucius has tried taking over but seems like the Squad was only loyal to you, even though Lucius is technically the Head. They’ve all gone rogue. Apparently, there was no failsafe in case you ever became…indisposed,” Sirius addressed Draco.

Draco nodded. “I didn’t have a second-in-command. My father convinced You-Know-Who that I didn’t need one and he never wanted to know details. Arrogant prick.”

Sirius gave Draco an odd look but didn’t question him. Instead, he went on with his update. “Anyway, the disorder has allowed us to smuggle out more Muggles than ever. We think the tide may be turning.”

“Because we left?” Harry asked. He found it hard to believe that their disappearances could have such drastic effects on the world.

“Draco was a high-ranking official in You-Know-Who’s government who was relied upon heavily. It’s not surprising his absence would leave such a hole. And you.” Sirius turned to Harry. “For twenty years, you were in hiding. You-Know-Who was able to convince himself that you didn’t exist. Now that he knows you’re out there, he’s become obsessed with finding you. He’s losing control with how obsessed he is.”

Harry let Sirius’s words settle over him. He could see clearly the end of the path – the moment when he had to die – coming sooner rather than later. It made his heart sink.

“What happens now?” Draco asked.

“We strike while the iron is hot,” Sirius said. “We need to move as quickly as possible. Right now, You-Know-Who is holed up in Hogwarts, but we think he may emerge to seek you out. When that happens, we plan to attack Hogwarts.”

“To accomplish what?” Harry asked.

“Rescue as many children that are left as possible.”

“They’re families are all Death Eaters,” Draco said. “They won’t go with you.”

“Are you certain they all share their families’ ideals?” Sirius challenged. “We believe the majority of them can be reformed, once out from under You-Know-Who’s indoctrination. We are also hoping that their instinct to live will be stronger than their loyalty to their parents.”

“Do you know what happened to my parents?” Draco asked evenly but Harry heard the anxiety in his voice. Harry placed a hand on Draco’s thigh under the table to calm him.

“Last I heard Lucius and Narcissa have been confined to the Manor. It’s not looking good for them, especially Lucius. I’m sorry.”

Draco frowned but remained quiet.

“I should get going,” Sirius said, standing up. “Hang in there for right now. I’ll be in touch about any developments.” Sirius pulled Harry into a gruff hug, nodded at Draco, and Disapparated.

Sirius’s _pop_ left a ringing silence in the kitchen. Sirius’s words, though optimistic, left Harry feeling uneasy. Could dismantling Voldemort’s regime really be as quick and easy as Sirius had made it sound? Or were there traps everywhere that the Order was too confident in their prowess to see?

“Sickle for your thoughts?” Draco asked.

“It seems too easy,” Harry said. “That you leave and the whole world falls to shit? No offense, but you’re not that great.” Harry tried and failed not to grin.

Draco’s body shook with laughter and some of the tension inside Harry eased. When his laughter subsided, Draco said, “Maybe the cracks were there, and my defection just allowed the Order to break through.”

Harry nodded. It was probably the truth. During one of their lessons, perhaps maybe two, three years ago, Dumbledore had told Harry and Hermione how much oppressors fear those they oppress, afraid that one day there would be someone who stood up to challenge their power. The Order had been resisting for nearly two decades, Harry knew, no doubt forming cracks in Voldemort’s regime that had seemed inconsequential on the surface, and to Voldemort, but which had widened over time; now they were seeing the fruits of their labor. A war raged within Harry: on the one hand, it was exciting that an end might be near for Voldemort and the Death Eaters; on the other, it meant Harry’s death was also near.

“Are you worried about your parents?” Harry asked to distract himself from his thoughts.

A shadow crossed Draco’s face. “My father can choke for all I care. But my mother is innocent in this. I’d like to save her if I can.”

Harry kissed Draco’s cheek and then dropped his forehead against Draco’s shoulder. “Could we maybe not talk about this for the rest of the day? Do something else?” Harry asked, suddenly bone weary.

“What’d you have in mind?” Harry could practically hear the smirk he knew was on Draco’s face.

* * *

The rest of September passed uneventfully, except that both Harry and Draco were getting stir-crazy. They received several, if not regular, updates on the Order’s movements against Voldemort and the Death Eaters from Sirius, sometimes Lupin. They passed the time by sleeping in, eating various meals they asked Kreacher to make for them, reading, cleaning and organizing the house, which had started to fall into disrepair from lack of use, and lots of sex. All-in-all, it was a life wholly different from the one Draco had known, but one which he loved all the more for it.

“I feel like I should be doing something,” Harry said. They were curled up in bed, Harry’s head on Draco’s chest, Draco’s arms holding Harry against him. Draco’s fingers traced absentmindedly along Harry’s arm.

“Like what?” Draco asked, kissing Harry’s hair.

“I don’t know.” Harry shrugged. “I wish we could go flying.”

Draco’s chest panged painfully. “Me too. After all of this is over, I’ll take you flying, like I promised. On a broom. On Hyperion. Both.”

Harry looked up at him sadly. They were both of them resolutely ignoring the very real fact that there was no ‘after’ for Harry, or for them.

++++++++++

“We’ve started spreading rumors – false, obviously – about where Harry is hiding in the hope we can lure You-Know-Who out of Hogwarts,” Lupin told them during one of his updates.

“Is that wise?” Draco was certain it wasn’t. “He’ll be even angrier when he realizes he’s being given false information.”

“That’s the idea.” Lupin gave him a wry smile. “The more unhinged he becomes the easier it is for us to dismantle the Death Eaters.”

Draco couldn’t argue the point.

++++++++++

His Aunt Bellatrix found them two days into October.

They were eating fish and chips when his wards went haywire, screeching wildly. A second later, the wards were silenced and the familiar lilting, sing-song voice rang through the house. “Now, now, Draco. Is that any way to greet your favorite auntie?” Harry grabbed his arm, vise-like.

Draco swiped his wand off the table, stepping in front of Harry like a shield. The scene was eerily similar to that in the stables on that fateful day a month ago. He threw a quick Disillusionment spell over Harry. Draco had no idea if it would fool his aunt, but it at least offered the semblance of protection.

Bellatrix sauntered into the kitchen. With a lazy wave of her wand, she had Disarmed Draco, his wand flying across the room and sliding under a cabinet. “There’ll be none of that, Draco. I just want to talk.” She flashed him a maniacal grin. Draco focused on the feel of Harry’s fingers digging into his flesh in order to stave off his panic.

“What do you want?” Draco asked through clenched teeth.

“I _told_ you,” Bellatrix whined, child-like. Draco imagined she was restraining stomping her foot. “I just want to talk.” She dragged a long fingernail across his cheek, and Draco willed himself not to flinch. With her black ankle-length dresses and her long black hair tied up in a messy bun in places and falling in long rivulets over her shoulders and back in others, Draco had used to find her regal, haughtily intimidating; now she was terrifying. He watched as her eyes roved the room, passing over where Harry stood behind him. She seemed not to have noticed Harry, or at least she pretended not to.

After a long minute, Bellatrix said, “The Dark Lord is most displeased with you, Draco.” Her voice was like ice in his veins. “At first, He thought perhaps your vanishing from the Manor was a clever ploy, a cover to lure out more Muggle scum so you could catch them more easily. But it appears you are serious in your endeavor to defect.” She popped the ‘t’, her voice dangerously hard. “As such, He had no choice but to take your insolence out on your parents. Your father’s title and position have been stripped and he and your mother are currently being held prisoner in your home. _However_ ,” her voice was sweet, laced with poison. “As the Dark Lord is a most kind and merciful soul” – Draco nearly choked – “should you be willing to return to the Dark Lord’s side and continue your work on the Muggle Hunting Squad in a capacity befitting a loyal Death Eater, and vow that this little _tantrum_ were never to happen again, the Dark Lord would be more than willing to overlook your little transgression. Your father would have his full status restored and the Dark Lord would see no reason to have to, shall we say, _eliminate_ , the problem.” Her eyes glinted wickedly, and Draco tasted ash in his mouth. “You have until midnight in two days’ time to present yourself at the Manor where I will be waiting for you, dear nephew.” Her voice had turned sharp, businesslike. “And do bring your little plaything.” Her eyes landed on the spot behind Draco where Harry was hidden. Harry stiffened against him. “The Dark Lord is ever so anxious to meet him.” She grinned nastily at him and Disapparated in a flourish.

Draco would have collapsed had Harry not caught him, Harry’s arm going around his waist. Harry steered him to a chair in the second before his knees gave out. He buried his face in his hands, his breaths coming short and shallow. He heard rather than saw Harry pull a chair next to him and felt Harry’s hand rubbing soothing circles into his back, Harry’s lips pressing butterfly kisses in his hair, across his neck.

“Breathe with me, yeah?” Harry said, taking deep breaths himself for Draco to mimic.

Draco focused on the sounds of Harry’s breaths and the feel of the circles on his back. Slowly, Draco took deep lungfuls of air, staving off the panic attack attempting to claw its way out of his chest, and his breathing evened out.

“Kreacher!” Harry called. The elf appeared with a loud _pop_. “Master Malfoy needs a cuppa. Please make it for him.”

Draco saw Kreacher sneer at Harry, who had Reillusioned himself at some point, but obey silently. Two minutes later, Harry was pressing a cup of hot tea into his shaking hands. Draco breathed in the hot steam, letting it calm him.

“Does Master Malfoy require anything else?” Kreacher croaked, resolutely avoiding eye contact with Harry.

“No. That’s all. Thank you, Kreacher,” Harry said, giving the elf a little smile. Kreacher stuck his nose in the air before popping elsewhere. Draco let out a shaky chuckle.

“He hates taking orders from you,” Draco told Harry. “He’s only doing it for me.”

Harry shrugged, still rubbing circles into his back. “How are you feeling?”

Draco took a deep, rattling breath and put his teacup and saucer on the table, undrunk.

“Like I’ve been hit with a hundred high-voltage Stunning spells,” Draco answered, leaning into Harry’s side. Draco fidgeted with the teaspoon on his saucer. “I don’t care about my father. But my mother is innocent. She doesn’t deserve to be punished.”

++++++++

The rest of that day and the next passed in a haze. Draco slept in fits and starts, his thoughts occupied by images of his mother chained up in the dungeons of the Manor, tortured by a bevy of different Death Eaters, including and most often her sister. 

“You should go back.” Harry’s voice was so quiet Draco thought he had misheard.

“What?” Draco shifted his head from where it rested on Harry’s chest, so he could look up at Harry who was staring at the ceiling of their bedroom.

“You should go back,” Harry repeated, tilting his head down to meet Draco’s gaze.

Draco pushed Harry’s arm off him and climbed out of bed, crossing his arms over his chest protectively. “Why would you say that?!” Draco asked, hurt.

Harry sat up, the covers pooled over his legs.

“They’re your parents.” Draco softened, reminded that Harry had lost two sets of parents, one at Draco’s own wand.

“I don’t care about my father,” Draco said again, but the words sounded false to his ears. Even though Lucius had wanted to kill him, Draco still loved him.

“But you do care about your mother.” Harry let the lie about his father go unacknowledged. Draco was grateful.

Draco pursed his lips and toed at the carpet, his head bent. The bedsheets rustled, and Draco heard Harry pad over to him.

“And I care about you,” Harry said coming into to Draco’s eye line. He had ducked his head to catch Draco’s eye.

Draco lifted his head but found the photo of Regulus’s Quidditch team fascinating.

“I need you to go back.”

Finally, Draco turned to Harry, caught off guard by the change to Harry’s phrasing. Harry’s lip was trembling, and Draco saw him blinking back tears. Draco’s arms fell to his sides; Harry stepped closer and took Draco’s hands in his.

Harry bit the inside of his cheek and stared at their linked hands. Then he took a deep breath and looked at Draco. “In all the years I’ve spent coming to terms with having to die, I never considered that I wouldn’t want to. That I would have a reason to live. But then I met you,” Harry’s voice broke and so did Draco’s heart. “And you were – _are_ – everything good and beautiful in this world and I love you with every fiber of my being and I don’t want to die but I have to because what kind of life could we have anyway if I didn’t?” 

Draco watched tears fall from Harry’s eyes as he rambled, his words coming fast and all in one sentence. Tears stung at the edges of Draco’s eyes, blurring his vision. The truth of Harry’s words fell heavy in the air between them, making it difficult for Draco to breathe.

“But I won’t be able to do that. I won’t be able to stand in front of You-Know-Who’s wand and let him kill me if I have to worry about you after I’m gone. And I know – I _know_ – you’re more than capable of taking care of yourself but I want to protect you, you know? And I won’t be able to do that if I’m dead, so that’s why I need you to go back. Because I know that You-Know-Who is an evil bastard, but I believe what Bellatrix said, and that if you go back and swear your loyalty to him, and if the Order doesn’t manage to destroy him after I’m dead, I know at least you’ll be _safe_. And I’ll be able to die knowing that the man I love will _survive_.”

Tears fell in rivulets down Draco’s cheeks. “You think I’ll survive being back there? Doing that again? Because I won’t.” Draco heard how broken his voice was.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, more tears leaking out, and pressed his forehead to Draco’s. “Please, Draco,” Harry pleaded.

Draco hiccoughed, his distress and his breaking heart overwhelming. Draco’s heart was painfully tight in his chest and his whole body ached. But he burned with anger, too. He was angry at the situation. Angry that Harry was forcing him back to that life he despised so much. Angry that he hated how much Harry’s words made sense. Angry that if he went back, he might never see Harry alive again, or at all. Angry that he would do anything for this man who had so absolutely and so thoroughly turned his life upside down and changed it for the better. 

“Okay,” Draco whispered.

Harry squeaked what Draco thought might have been a sigh of relief and kissed Draco, a hard press of lips against lips. Draco whimpered, dropping Harry’s hands so he could circle his arms around Harry’s waist, pulling them flush against each other. Harry’s arms came up to wind around Draco’s neck. They kissed feverishly through their tears, hot and claiming. Draco pushed Harry back towards the bed; if this was going to be their last night together for the rest of their lives, Draco wanted it to be one they both would remember until they died.

“Thank you,” Harry said, after, his head cushioned on Draco’s chest.

Tears threatened at Draco’s eyes again, but he blinked them away. “I love you more than anything in this world, Harry. All my life, I’ll never stop loving you.”

Harry kissed the skin under which Draco’s heart beat only for him. Then, “Can I ask one more thing?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you – can you go before I wake up in the morning? If you don’t, I’ll never let you leave.”

Draco’s lips trembled, and a tear slipped down his cheek, but he said, “Okay.”

* * *

True to his word, when Harry awoke, Draco was gone. But a toy broomstick no longer than the length of his palm, which Harry assumed Draco had conjured while Harry had slept, was floating over the pillow Draco had vacated. Upon closer inspection, Harry realized words were engraved on the handle. Harry held it up to his eyes, so he could read it. _For when we meet again._

Harry’s body wracked with sobs, his hand wrapped tightly around the tiny broom.

* * *

Draco took a deep, shuddering breath and stepped through the wards of the Manor. The walk along the entranceway between the gates and the front door was a long one; his heart thudded painfully against his chest beating in time with his heavy steps. Every bone in his body screamed at him to turn around and flee back to Grimmauld Place. But Harry required this of him, and so he would return to the Dark Lord’s fold.

Stepping through the doors, Draco realized this was not the Manor he had left. Although it was early morning, the house was dark and uninviting, lamps were unlit, and the shades were drawn. The human slaves he passed were sunken-looking, afraid of their own shadows; when he had left, though they had not been happy, they had been well cared for, at least; there were no house elves in sight. This was no longer a home, Draco realized, but a prison, including – especially – for its masters. Draco forced himself to keep walking, pushing deeper into the Manor, looking for his aunt. After five minutes, he found her in the drawing room, spread out on what used to be his mother’s favorite settee, her eyes closed, and her arm draped dramatically over her eyes. He could have killed her, so unguarded did she appear. Instead, he cleared his throat to alert her of his presence.

She sat up slowly and clapped her hands like a child on Christmas morning when she saw him. “Draco, you came.” Her eyes shone with glee. “That’s a good boy. I knew you would not disappoint the Dark Lord. Although I do not see your little boy toy. No matter.” She batted at the air, waving away Harry’s absence. “Come.” She glided over to him, taking his hand in one of hers. It took all of Draco’s strength not to recoil at her touch. “Let’s go see your parents, shall we?”

She led him into the dungeons where Narcissa and Lucius were shackled to each other, locked up in the same dingy dungeons – which were stripped of all the minor improvements Draco had implemented – as the Muggles. They were thinner and sallower than Draco had ever seen them, their clothes a ramshackle mess, completely unkempt and ordinary. There were no outward signs of abuse, unlike the Muggles with whom they shared a cell, all of whose faces were littered with bruises and cuts and scratches at various stages of healing. Draco didn’t know whether such scars were a result of target practice by the Squad or his aunt’s whims. He had no clue where Pansy was, and didn’t care.

Bellatrix motioned to her sister and brother-in-law, and they came forward as a unit to greet him.

“Draco,” Narcissa said, and something in her eyes said _You should have let us die_.

“Draco.” Although he was a shell of his former self, Lucius’s sneer was the same as ever and his disgust for his son was evident on his face.

“I’m here. Let them out,” Draco said to Bellatrix.

She laughed, high and cruel. “Draco, Draco,” she _tsk_ ed. “Did you really think it would be that simple? No, no. You must make an Unbreakable Vow.” His eyes widened in horror and his heart jumped into his throat. “Once the Dark Lord is assured of your loyalty, only then will your parents be restored to their former glory.” She held out her arm – the one with the Dark Mark – expectantly.

Draco swallowed back his rising panic, thought of Harry’s pleading voice, and slowly attached his arm to his aunt’s. Her mouth stretched into a twisted grin as she pulled her wand out of her hair, where she was using it as a sort of pin; the hair, set loose, fell in front of her face. She blew it off to the side and held it over their clasped hands.

“Will you, Draco, vow to be faithful to the Dark Lord for the rest of your days?”

Draco’s mouth was like cotton. “I will.” A tongue of brilliant flame issued from Bellatrix’s wand and wound its way around their clasped hands like a red-hot wire.

“Will you vow to hunt Muggles and other like scum with the fervor that the Dark Lord requires?

Biting back the bile in his throat, Draco said, “I will.” A second tongue of flame shot from Bellatrix’s wand and interlinked with the first, creating a glowing chain.

“And, should the Dark Lord require it, will you vow to do everything in your power to assist Him in the destruction of Harry Potter?” Her nasty grin contorted her face into the ugliest thing Draco had ever laid eyes on. 

His face drained of blood and he nearly vomited where he stood. His eyes flicked to his mother’s, which seemed to be pleading with him not to make the final vow. But Harry’s pleading voice rang stronger in his ears, and his heart. “I will,” Draco said and watched as the final tongue of flame emerged from Bellatrix’s wand, twisted with the other two, and bound itself around their clasped hands, like a fiery snake.

Draco was positive his death was as certain as Harry’s.

* * *

After a week of being holed up in Grimmauld Place without Draco, Harry begged Sirius and Remus to let him join in the Order’s resistance movements. He hoped fighting would distract him from the painful ache in his chest where Draco had once been, still was, would always be.

“Please, I need to do something. I can’t sit here anymore.”

“Where’s Draco?” Remus asked.

“I sent him back to the Manor,” Harry answered flatly.

“Why on earth would you do that?” Sirius barked at the same time Remus said, “Do you have any idea how dangerous that is for us?”

“His parents were being held prisoners in their own home,” Harry responded, not in the mood for a lecture. “And because it will keep him safe.” He didn’t care if they thought he was naïve. “And I need him to be safe in order to do what I have to.” He trusted his tone told them it was the end of the discussion.

Evidently, they got the message because they both glared at him disapprovingly, but neither made any further comments. Perhaps picking up on his distress, they agreed to let him participate in the sabotaging raids the Order was now conducting regularly all over Britain. It appeared that Draco’s defection had indeed caused chaos across the country. Harry hoped sending Draco back wouldn’t set back their efforts.

The rest of October passed in a blur of Harry alternately out on the warpath, blowing up areas the Order knew were crawling with Death Eaters or in the cabin with Moody, Kingsley, Sirius, and Remus plotting out their next steps. (He had asked to be part of the team freeing prisoners-of-war from Azkaban but had been denied. He hadn’t asked a second time.) As Voldemort still had not emerged from Hogwarts, and the number one priority of the Order was still to rescue the children being indoctrinated there, they decided that Harry would not renew his Glamour. They wanted him to be seen. The time had passed for Harry to be in hiding; now he was out there, leading the charge against Voldemort. It was exhilarating, all-consuming, the perfect dizzying solution to balm his broken heart. 

* * *

Draco had been skeptical of the Dark Lord’s offer, but true to His word, almost immediately after Draco had taken the Unbreakable Vow, Bellatrix ordered Narcissa and Lucius be released. In the following days, all in the Manor seemed to return to as it was before, with one caveat: Bellatrix remained in the Manor, a constant reminder of his so-called transgression and the grave consequences should he choose to repeat it. With Bellatrix constantly under foot, Draco was unable to restore to the Muggle prisoners the small kindnesses he had granted them, and he was forced to partake in utilizing them for target practice; the dummies he had once used were nowhere to be found. Muggle hunting was agony – he was no longer being able to feed the Order names to save. But Draco forced himself to partake in it with as much fervor as he could muster, hoping it would be enough to stave off suspicion, and secretly thrilled whenever they arrived some place and the Muggles were already gone.

Harry’s pleas for him to be safe and the Unbreakable Vow weighed heavily on Draco, and so he forged ahead, shutting down his mind to the horrors he was perpetrating and forcing himself to eat and keep from letting himself get sick.

As October wore on excruciatingly slowly, Draco was forced into another kind of hell: His parents – father – expected him to still marry Pansy. The wedding was scheduled for the end of November.

“I don’t love her,” Draco told Lucius when he brought up the matter about a week after Draco’s return.

“I don’t give a centaur’s arse whether you love her or not,” Lucius hissed, low and dangerous. “You _are_ going to marry that girl and you will not make a scene about it.”

With no recourse but to obey, Draco spent as much time as he could on his broom. The cool autumn air, already with a winter chill, allowed him to forget where he was and what he was doing, even if only for a brief amount of time. In the air, he could pretend he was with Harry, and that they were free.

Security in the Manor doubled two-fold as word came that the prisoners in Azkaban had somehow been freed, the Dementors scattered to the wind, and whispers ran rampant among the Death Eaters in the Squad and in Bellatrix’s bevy of underlings that Harry Potter had been sighted at the areas where Death Eaters were bombed out, blasted to bits.

Draco’s chest roared in triumph.

* * *

“I think we should storm Hogwarts,” Harry announced during one of the Order’s meetings three days before Halloween.

Having been hidden beneath a _Fidelius_ charm his entire life and, when he had emerged it was into the Muggle world, Harry had not been aware that Halloween – the night Voldemort murdered his parents and “disappeared” – had been declared a national day of mourning by Voldemort upon his return a year later. (Dumbledore had never shared that bit of information.) But on his raid two days ago, Harry had spotted posters reminding of the event – shops, Gringotts, and the Ministry were all to be closed, Squad hunts were cancelled for the day, classes at Hogwarts were cancelled, and Death Eaters were all to remain in their homes to observe the holiday privately, out of respect for their “fallen” leader. Harry had nearly been caught, he’d been so stymied by the posters and the fact of the event.

“On the morning of Halloween,” Harry clarified. “It’s a bizarre national holiday for them. They won’t be anticipating it. There won’t be any guards in Hogsmeade or anywhere else. Hogwarts won’t be on alert. They’ll be sitting ducks in the castle.” Harry had expected a fight; to his surprise, Moody and Kingsley agreed almost immediately. Plans were set in motion and moved quickly.

Messages were sent out on the Order coins to members all over the country and those scattered across the continent – and within Hogwarts. Remus corralled a werewolf army, and Hagrid one of giants, including his sixteen-foot half-brother, centaurs, and acromantulas. Minerva McGonagall, whom Harry had not yet met but had heard a lot about from both Dumbledore and other Order members, was to lead the charge of non-Death Eater Hogwarts professors. (The majority, Harry was told. Besides Headmaster Snape, Amycus and Alecto Carrow were the only actual Death Eaters who “taught” at the school. The rest were holdovers from before Voldemort rose to power and were fiercely loyal to Dumbledore, the Order, and Harry.) Among the reinforcements from abroad was the Weasley family and Hermione.

“I missed you so much,” Harry said into Hermione’s hair as they hugged tightly upon her entrance into the cabin.

“I’m so glad you’re alright, Harry.” She kissed his cheek.

“Good to see you, mate,” Ron said, clapping Harry on the back when Harry and Hermione had broken apart.

“You too. Though we need to have a chat about you and my sister.” Harry grinned at his friend, who blushed as red as hair, as the whole bevy of Weasleys paraded over to where they were standing. In turn, Harry greeted Arthur Weasley and met Molly, Ron’s mother, and Ron’s six siblings (five older brothers and one little sister): Bill, the oldest; Charlie; Percy; Fred and George, identical twins; and Ginny. Charlie had brought with him a horde of dragons on stand-by, ready to heed his call. Bill had a team of curse-breakers keen to break the wards on Hogwarts that the professors inside couldn’t lower without raising suspicion.

And so, on the morning of Halloween, in the hours before the sun rose, they attacked. Soldiers emerged in the quiet of the morning from beneath the Whomping Willow – the Shrieking Shack in Hogsmeade was another Order safe house – directly inside the wards surrounding the grounds. Others apparated just outside the invisible walls, as professors inside the castle silently began stripping a layer of protection spells. In the Forbidden Forest, Hagrid, Remus, and Charlie Weasley held court over their armies of creatures. Harry stood on the shore of the Black Lake with Ron and Hermione, Kingsley, Moody, and Tonks, the front line of the fourth front approaching from the lake. Empty boats drifted in front of them, waiting patiently for passengers. Directly across the shadowy waters loomed the vast castle, high up on boulders, its turrets dark and shuttered as its occupants slept on. As Harry watched, a light flickered in the window of the highest tower, the signal from McGonagall that the first layer of wards had been disabled and that Bill’s curse-breakers should begin their attack on the rest.

At Bill’s signal, Harry slipped into the first boat with Ron, Hermione, and Kingsley Shacklebolt. Moody and Tonks were in one of the boats behind them, the remaining Weasleys in another. Ten other boats trailed in their wake. As they floated across the lake, Harry imagined all manner of creatures lurking beneath the ripples, but nothing emerged to block their path. The boats slid to a stop at the shore of the lake directly below the castle. Silently, they stepped as a unit onto the Hogwarts grounds, melding together with the front that had entered from the Shrieking Shack through the tree. If anyone in the castle had looked down at that precise moment, they would have seen a mass of dark shapes and shadows meters from the castle’s front doors. Pops and hisses echoed around them in the still early morning air as Bill Weasley and his curse-breakers dismantled the remaining wards surrounding the castle.

The castle blinked awake at the noise just as the last wards fell. They charged.

* * *

Alarm spells rang shrilly through the Manor, startling Draco out of sleep. He checked a _Tempus_ charm: 5:00 a.m. He normally didn’t wake until eight when he had a day off. Draco groaned and dragged himself out of bed. Ten minutes later, he emerged fully dressed from his chambers to find the Manor in a state of frenzy. The Squad members and Death Eater guards who had stayed in the Manor to observe the ridiculous Remembrance Day were crowding the corridors, alert with activity. Narcissa and Lucius were standing, half-dressed, outside of their chambers, in deep conversation with Bellatrix. Draco stalked over to his parents and aunt.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Draco barked.

“Hogwarts is under attack,” Bellatrix responded, her whole body vibrating with nervous energy. Draco blinked, surprised. The Order had gone on the offensive. “The time has come to assist the Dark Lord in crushing Harry Potter’s little coup! We must go now!” She insisted and hurried away in a flourish. Draco swallowed thickly. He wanted nothing more than to be fighting by Harry’s side.

Lucius gave a Draco a disgusted look – as he usually did these days – and disappeared back into the master chambers, no doubt to dress for the fight. Narcissa remained in the corridor with Draco for a moment longer, studying him. She stepped closer, wrapping him in a hug. In his ear, she whispered, “Follow your heart, _Mon Coeur_.” Then she was gone, the chambers’ door shut softly behind her.

Draco took a steadying breath and descended into the foyer where the Death Eaters were gathering with Bellatrix as commander. He slipped into their ranks after nodding once to his aunt. Once Narcissa and Lucius appeared, as a unit, they turned into the nothingness of apparition and reappeared on the grounds of Hogwarts.

The first thing Draco noticed was that the castle was in various states of ruin. The highest towers appeared to have been torn apart by what Draco took to be talon marks made by dragons or else smashed into by what could only be giants. Parts of the lower areas of the castle closer to the ground were blasted away no doubt by a bombardment of spells. The front doors were thrown wide open. Cacophony rang loud in their ears as they climbed the steps and passed through into the entranceway.

Chaos reigned within the castle. Draco counted no less than ten separate duels between various Death Eaters and Order members as he moved from the entranceway to what was once the Great Hall and through to the main corridor. Some were happening too quickly for him to see who was who. The ones he was able to discern were: Minerva McGonagall and Severus Snape, locked in battle, atop the platform where the professors’ High Table normally stood; Remus Lupin flung spells (Whose wand was he using? Draco wondered. His had been confiscated by Draco himself upon his capture.) at a growling Fenrir Greyback; and Moody and Kingsley battled the Carrow siblings, side-by-side, at the top of the Grand Staircase, which looked ready to crumble under the force of the clash. Strewn across the Great Hall and entranceway were either dead or seriously injured bodies, Death Eater and Order alike. Draco ignored them.

Draco noted that Voldemort was nowhere in sight, evidently content to let his Death Eaters fight and die for him while he hid away. Harry, too, was not in this area of the castle; as the new wave of Death Eaters rushed to assist their compatriots or else scatter to presumably find other Order members with whom to engage, under cover of the pandemonium, Draco slipped away to find him.

* * *

Harry had volunteered to escort as many students out of Hogwarts as possible. The seventeen-year olds who had wanted to fight – either for or against the Death Eaters – had been permitted to stay. Together with two professors who were introduced to Harry as Pomona Sprout and Horace Slughorn, he guided fifteen and sixteen-year old students from their dorms to the seventh floor where what Remus and Sirius had called the Room of Requirement was hidden. Opposite a tapestry of a wizard attempting to teach trolls to dance ballet, Harry followed his godfather’s instructions and walked past the blank wall three times, tuning out the sound of the battles raging below them and concentrating on the need for a way to escape, or at least hide. On his third walk past, he heard a door appearing. It had worked.

Harry yanked open the door and stepped into a very large living room. Sprout and Slughorn ushered the children inside and formed them into lines while Harry took in his surroundings. The room was a dizzying mix of red, green, blue, and yellow. Lush yellow-gold carpet lined the floors, while silver curtains draped across the windows. Red couches with blue throw pillows, blue armchairs with red throw pillows, and green and black beanbag chairs were spread around the space. With a jolt, Harry realized these were the colors of what used to be the four houses of Hogwarts: green and silver for Slytherin, red and gold for Gryffindor, blue and silver for Ravenclaw, and yellow and black for Hufflepuff. On the wall opposite the windows hung a large portrait of a young girl, no more than ten.

Just as he was considering what the portrait had to do with anything, it opened revealing a young man with dark hair who appeared to be the same age as Harry. Harry whipped his head around, a _Protego_ ready on his lips.

“Don’t shoot,” the man said, his hands raised. “Aberforth Dumbledore sent me. Name’s Neville Longbottom.”

Harry let the spell die on his lips and walked over to the open portrait to shake Neville’s hand. Remus had told him this is who would be meeting him at the Room of Requirement.

“I’ve been underground with the Order all over Britain. We’ve set up this passageway into Ab’s pub to get the kids out of Hogwarts safely. There’s a whole bunch of us set up there to keep watch in case Death Eaters get the smart idea to patrol Hogsmeade again. We ready for the first wave?” Harry nodded and motioned to Slughorn to bring over the first line. “Right. Now, the tunnel’s narrow so single file everybody!” At Slughorn’s indication, a brave fifth-year stepped into the tunnel beside Neville. Her line mates followed. Neville waved at Harry as he turned around and led the group down the tunnel.

It took three more trips to get all the students safely through the passageway. Slughorn and Sprout both followed the last group, extra fire power for the guards in the Hog’s Head.

“You be careful, my boy!” Slughorn boomed at Harry as he closed the portrait behind him.

When Harry emerged from the Room of Requirement, the castle was in chaos. More Death Eaters had arrived to join the fray. On his way down back to the Entrance Hall, he passed multiple fights between Death Eaters and Order members, none he recognized. Injured bodies on both sides stumbled down staircases and over loose bits of the castle that had been dislodged by blasts of spells. Harry ignored no less than fifteen dead bodies as he descended through the castle. On the second-floor landing, Harry spotted a flash of white-gold hair. His heart jumped into his throat and then sunk when he realized it was not Draco, but Lucius. Still, if Lucius was here, Draco must be too.

Harry tugged out the piece of parchment from his back pocket and muttered, “I solemnly swear I’m up to no good.” A blueprint of the castle appeared littered with tiny roving dots, each with a name hovering above it. He scoured the names for the one he wanted it. Just as he found the dot labelled “Draco Malfoy” alone on what was marked as the Astronomy Tower, a cold-high-pitched voice boomed magically around the castle and its grounds, quieting the chaos.

“You have fought valiantly. Lord Voldemort knows how to value bravery. Yet you have sustained heavy losses. If you continue to fight me, you will all die, one by one. Lord Voldemort is merciful. I command my forces to cease immediately and join me in the Forbidden Forest. You have one hour. Dispose of your dead with dignity. Treat your injured.

“I speak now, Harry Potter, directly to you. You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself. I shall wait one hour in the Forbidden Forest. If, at the end of that hour, you have not come to me, have not given yourself up, then battle will recommence. This time, I shall enter the fray myself, Harry Potter, and I shall find you, and I shall punish every last man, woman, and child who has tried to conceal you from me. One hour.”

Harry’s blood ran cold. In all the years he had pictured sacrificing himself to Voldemort’s wand, it had always been on his terms, in his time. Now it was on Voldemort’s. Harry swore as angry tears clouded his eyes. Draco. He needed to find Draco.

As Death Eaters with their injured and dead abandoned the castle to the Order, Harry turned and sprinted back up the stairs, following the map to guide him towards the Astronomy tower.

Harry burst through the door at a run, skidding to a stop on the stone floor.

“Draco,” Harry croaked. He was standing at the edge of the battlement, his hands on the ledge, and his blond head bowed.

Draco lifted his head and turned; his face crumbled at the sight of Harry. Harry’s heart cracked, and he threw himself into Draco’s arms. Draco caught him, arms tight around his waist, and buried his nose in Harry’s shoulder. Harry sobbed out a sigh of relief, his own arms circled around Draco’s neck.

“Harry,” Draco breathed against his hair, breathing him in.

Harry wasn’t sure how long they stood like that, wrapped in each other’s arms, but at some point, Draco lifted his head off of Harry’s shoulder and then they were kissing like mad, all tongues and teeth and bruising, desperate presses of lips against lips. Draco’s hands clawed and scratched at Harry’s back through his shirt and Harry’s fingers tugged at Draco’s hair, freeing it wildly from its gel. Eventually, Harry broke away, needing to breathe. He would have gladly died from lack of oxygen while kissing Draco senseless, but that wasn’t what he’d come here for.

Harry dropped his forehead against Draco’s. “I missed you,” Harry whispered. Draco’s arms tightened around his waist, pulling them impossibly closer.

“Don’t go. _Please_.” Draco pleaded, a mocking, reverse echo of what Harry had asked of Draco weeks ago in Grimmauld Place.

Harry whimpered, his breath catching as his heart stuttered in his chest. He so badly wanted to stay here, in Draco’s arms.

“I have to.” Draco made a noise like a wounded animal and Harry hated how he was breaking both their hearts, breaking Draco’s. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Harry chanted, pressing quick, butterfly kisses across Draco’s cheeks, his eyelids, his lips. “It was so selfish of me to come find you. I just needed to see you. Needed to touch you and kiss you and feel you because I’d never have the courage to face what I have to face if I didn’t,” Harry rambled, staving off the panic and abject fear rising in his chest and stalling the moment when he would have to free himself from Draco’s embrace.

Draco hiccoughed a broken sob and buried his face in the crook between Harry’s neck and shoulder. “I hate this,” Draco said into Harry’s neck. “I just want to be with you.”

Hot tears fell thick and fast down Harry’s face and he took shuddering breaths. His time was running out. “I just want to be with you too.” But they couldn’t be. Not in this world, not in this life. “And, if they exist, maybe in another life, we will be.” Harry didn’t know if he believed in alternate lives but in this moment, he needed so desperately for it to be true, and for Draco to believe it to be true.

Harry took Draco’s face in his hands and kissed Draco, slow and lingering, saying everything he couldn’t say with words. “I will love you until my dying breath and if there is life after death, I will love you then too,” Harry said against Draco’s lips.

He pressed the tiny broom into Draco’s hand and with a Herculean amount of effort and strength, Harry broke the contact and ran from the tower.

++++++++

Harry’s walk through the school was eerie. In perhaps some sort of ironic camaraderie, the entire castle was deathly quiet. There was no one in sight as Harry descended each flight of stairs and he wondered where all the Order members were, the Death Eaters having taken refuge in the Forest at Voldemort’s command. He got his answer as he passed through the Entrance Hall: the Order had congregated in the Great Hall. Although he didn’t go in, he took a moment to look; the wounded were being treated by someone who appeared to be a Healer and the dead were lined up by the far windows, the dawn sun illuminating them. Although Harry felt terrible about thinking it, he was relieved that none of the dead appeared to be anyone he knew. Still, his eyes roved the Hall searching for those he loved.

Hermione was sitting with the Weasleys, her head on Ron’s shoulder. They all had cuts on their faces, and appeared worn out and tired, but seemed otherwise unharmed. Remus and Sirius were next to them, in a quiet conversation with Tonks. They, too, seemed a bit worse for wear, but unharmed. Kingsley and Moody were both atop the dais at the front of the Hall and looked to be overseeing the triage. Hagrid, however, did not appear to be in the Hall.

Harry turned away and walked through the open front doors into the early morning of Halloween.

* * *

When Draco opened his eyes, he was alone on the Astronomy Tower, the door swinging shut behind where Harry had disappeared down the staircase. His face stung where his tears had frozen in the cold, early dawn Halloween air. Draco knew instinctively what Harry had slipped into his hand. Taking deep, steadying breaths, Draco slowly opened his shaking fingers. The tiny broom he had left for Harry floated over his palm. Tears cascaded down his face as he fell to the cold flagstone floor, the broom clutched tightly in his hand, and howled in pain.

Draco’s heart was so shattered, his chest felt as raw and broken open as if Harry had cast a _Sectumsempra_ spell on him.

It took Draco ten minutes to compose himself enough to stand up. Without turning back to the grounds for fear that he would see Harry walking to his death, Draco slipped the toy broom carefully into his coat pocket beside his wand and exited the Astronomy Tower. His steps down the staircases were slow and labored; his shattered heart was still making it painful to breathe. As he descended, Draco noticed the castle was empty, silent and broken as if it too was mourning. It was a strange, yet comforting, solidarity.

In the Entrance Hall, Draco realized the castle wasn’t precisely empty: when Voldemort had ordered the Death Eaters to the Forbidden Forest, the Order had convened in the Great Hall. Not caring if such an action broke his Unbreakable Vow, Draco entered, his feet carrying him to where Sirius and Lupin were engaged in a quiet conversation with Tonks. To his complete and utter shock, Sirius pulled him into a brief hug.

“Where’s Harry?” Lupin asked. His face must have crumpled because Lupin looked away, emotional, his arm on Sirius’s for support.

“Draco?” a cautious voice said from behind him. He turned around to see Hermione Granger standing a foot away from him. “Did he –?” Hermione whispered.

Draco nodded.

They looked at each other, mirrors of their own grief. After a short minute, again to Draco’s enormous shock, Hermione threw her arms around him in a fierce embrace. Slowly, Draco wound his arms loosely around her waist.

“He didn’t tell me, but I know he loved you so much,” Hermione said into his ear, and Draco let fall the tears that had been threatening to escape since he left the Astronomy Tower.

When they broke apart, Hermione led him by the hand over to the Weasleys. Although some of the brothers and the mother (rightly) glanced at him apprehensively, following explanations from Hermione, Ron, and Arthur that Draco was a member of the Order and that Harry loved and trusted him, the rest of the family appeared to relax. Molly, as Draco was introduced to the kind-looking woman next to Arthur, even mothered him, checking him for injuries and demanding he sit down. He submitted to her demand, overwhelmed by and bone weary from the emotions still wracking through him.

After five minutes of sitting and staring aimlessly into space, his mind racing with thoughts (Was Harry dead yet? What if Harry’s death accomplished nothing except getting him killed? What if they couldn’t kill Nagini and, thus, Voldemort? How was he supposed to live without Harry even if they did kill Nagini and Voldemort?), Draco walked over to the triage area. As the Head of the Muggle Hunting Squad he had been trained with basic Healing spells in case his Squad members were injured.

“I want to help. I have Healing training,” Draco told Madame Pomfrey. He hadn’t been kind to her when he was a student at Hogwarts and so her long, suspicious regarding of him was well-deserved.

“You can start by Healing those people over there,” she said eventually. She pointed at a group of Order members and what appeared to be seventh-year students (Where had the rest of the students gone? Draco wondered. He hadn’t had a chance to ask Harry and hadn’t thought to ask Sirius and Lupin or the Weasleys just now.). “They have minor and non-fatal injuries. You may Heal them, and we’ll work from there.”

He nodded at her and went where she had indicated.

* * *

The grounds, too, were still. As he crossed the frost-covered grass, Harry wondered where all the creatures were. What had happened to Charlie’s dragons, Remus’s fellow werewolves, and Hagrid’s cadre of acromantulas, centaurs, and giants? Were there any left? Was Hagrid with them somewhere, tending to their wounds?

His heart beating furiously in his chest, Harry strode past the Black Lake, past a hut in disrepair and overrun with vegetation, and into the Forbidden Forest. Although the sun was almost fully risen now, the trees were thick and had grown close together, forming a canopy over his head that blocked out most of the daylight. As he pushed farther into the Forest, Harry realized he had no idea where Voldemort was holding court. He couldn’t wander around aimlessly; his allotted hour was almost up. Nevertheless, he drove on.

After walking for five minutes, Harry heard a rustling. Two masked Death Eaters appeared from behind trees. They’d been waiting for him. Harry held his hands up in surrender and allowed them each to take one of his wrists, vise-like, in theirs and frog-march him off in the direction of their master. They arrived at a clearing where Death Eaters, injured and unharmed alike, were spread out amongst the trees. Harry took in the scene as they approached: Lucius and Narcissa were together, just off to the side of where Voldemort, Nagini in an enchanted cage twined around his neck like a bizarre necklace, someone who Harry took to be Severus Snape, and Bellatrix had their heads bent in apparent conversation. Harry’s eyes met Narcissa’s over her husband’s head; she frowned, and Harry thought he saw sadness there. With a start, Harry realized that Hagrid was bound with ropes and chains to a tree on the other side of Voldemort, Bellatrix, and Snape; five Death Eaters had their wands pointed at him in case he tried to make an escape, not that he could with the amount of shackles tied to his wrists and feet.

“I thought he would come,” Harry heard Voldemort lament to Snape and Bellatrix as his guards marched him a stop. “I suppose I thought wrong.”

“You didn’t,” Harry said.

“’Arry, no!” Hagrid shouted, and struggled against his restraints in an effort to reach Harry.

Voldemort spun around at Hagrid’s holler and Harry’s voice. He grinned, wide and twisted and feral, when he saw Harry flanked by his soldiers.

“Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, come to die.” Voldemort’s voice, ever cruel and high, was laced with something akin to glee, and all the more terrifying for it.

Harry willed his heart to slow, the _thump thump thump_ against his ribcage a violent reminder that he was alive and that he wanted to live.

“Yeah, I have,” Harry said, his voice full of the bravado he didn’t feel. This was the moment he had been trained for his entire life, the moment for which Dumbledore had prepared him for nearly twenty years, and yet, in the face of the reality of his death, he was petrified. Would it hurt to die? He wished he could ask his parents – any of them.

Bellatrix danced, wild and crazy, where she stood next to her Dark Lord. Snape frowned slightly, something unreadable in his eyes. Voldemort’s grin turned maniacal as he waved away Harry’s captors and glided closer to where Harry waited.

Harry’s heart, the traitor, pounded lightning-fast as Voldemort stalked towards him, wand held aloft in long, skeletal-like fingers.

Harry saw, rather than heard, Voldemort form the words of the Killing Curse. Harry closed his eyes against the blast of green light and thought inexplicably of the feel of Draco’s lips against his, Draco’s arms wrapped around his body. For just a second, Harry felt the force of the spell hit him square in the chest, just above his heart, and then – nothing.

++++++++

As his senses came back to him, the first thing Harry noticed was the silence. The second thing he noticed was that he was naked. Although instinct told him he was alone, Harry wished he was clothed. Almost as soon as he’d had the thought, a soft, warm robe enveloped him. The third thing he noticed was that he was lying face-down on some sort of surface that was neither hard nor soft, neither warm nor cold. The fourth thing Harry noticed was the noise breaking through the silence: pitiful thumpings of something that was flapping, flailing, and struggling.

Blinking his eyes open – he wasn’t wearing glasses, Harry realized – and sitting up, Harry took in his surroundings. There was a bright, vapory mist all around him, which appeared to be formless, or rather not yet formed. As he looked, the mist solidified: a great domed glass roof shining brightly over a hall larger than the Great Hall he had seen in Hogwarts. Harry thought it looked vaguely like King’s Cross Station. As Harry moved slowly, searching for the thumping noises, which had grown loud and shrill in the heavy silence, the mist molded itself into benches. He stopped at a bench a little way away from where he had woken up, barely stifling a shout.

What appeared to be a small, naked child was curled on the ground. Its skin was raw and rough, as though it had been flayed; it was shuddering, struggling for breath, where it had been stuffed under one of the benches, abandoned and unwanted.

Although he was afraid of it, Harry took tentative steps towards it, ready to jump back at any moment should it attack him. He stopped at a touch’s breath away, feeling like he should comfort it, but couldn’t bring himself to reach out to it, repulsed, and felt like a miserable coward.

“You cannot help.”

Harry spun around. Albus Dumbledore was striding towards him, wearing sweeping robes of midnight blue. Harry had never seen him look so _wizardly_ ; in all of his visits to the Grangers’, Dumbledore had always worn Muggle clothes.

“Harry, you wonderful boy. You brave, brave man,” Dumbledore said, his arms spread wide. “Walk with me.”

Stunned, Harry followed. Dumbledore led him away from the whimpering thing and to a bench a little bit away where it was quieter.

“Aren’t you dead?” Harry asked and winced at his own bluntness.

“Oh yes.” Dumbledore smiled serenely at him.

Harry blinked. “So…I’m dead too,” Harry said slowly, reasonably.

Dumbledore studied him. Harry squirmed. He had always hated when Dumbledore did that, like he could see right through Harry to his soul. “On the whole, dear boy, I think not.”

Confused, Harry asked, “Not?” His brows furrowed into a ‘V’. If Dumbledore was dead, and he was here with Dumbledore, didn’t that make him dead, too?

“Not,” Dumbledore confirmed, still smiling.

“But…” Harry scratched his forehead absentmindedly, thinking. With a jolt, he realized he no longer had his scar. “But I…I walked into the Forest and stood in front of his wand and just…let him hit me with the Killing Curse. I meant to let him kill me, like you had prepared me for.”

“And that, I think is what made all the difference.”

Harry restrained from swearing under his breath. Harry had also always hated Dumbledore’s tendencies to speak in riddles and provide cryptic answers. It had absolutely driven Hermione mad as a hatter.

“Explain,” Harry demanded, not caring if he was being rude. “You told me for years that I had to let him kill me.”

“I did, dear boy. I did. And why did I tell you that?”

Harry thought back to all their lessons, everything Dumbledore had explained about Horcruxes, and about the Horcrux that was inside of Harry. “So that the piece of Voldemort’s soul that was inside me would be destroyed.”

Dumbledore nodded, his grin wide as his face. He was radiating happiness, palpably and utterly content.

“So, it’s gone?”

"Yes, dear boy. Your soul is wholly and completely your own!”

Harry turned to the flayed, whimpering thing. “Is that?”

“Yes, I believe it is, Harry. And beyond either of our help.”

Harry stared at it, pitying it, and then asked, “But if Voldemort used the Killing Curse, and nobody died for me this time – how can I be alive?”

Dumbledore regarded Harry, and the question. “My suspicions were not confirmed until this moment, but I believe he took your blood.”  
  


“He took my blood?” Harry repeated, alarmed.

Dumbledore nodded once. “I believe that in the moments after Voldemort’s curse backfired and before Hagrid rescued you from that house, Severus Snape snuck into Godric’s Hollow and took a sample of your blood.”

Harry stared at Dumbledore, his mouth hanging open, horror-struck.

Dumbledore continued. “With that blood, he rebuilt his living body. I always wondered how he had returned much sooner than I had anticipated. It seems I finally have my answer,” he said as an afterthought and more to himself than to Harry.

“I don’t understand,” Harry said, attempting to bring Dumbledore back around to his explanation.

“Apologies. I digress. Your blood has run in his veins for twenty years, Harry, Lily’s protection inside both of you! He tethered you to life while he lives!”

“Didn’t you tell me the prophecy said neither of us could live while the other survives? That we both had to die? Or is it the same thing?” Harry was confused beyond comprehension, distracted by the agonizing whimpering of Voldemort’s destroyed soul.

“He essentially made himself your Horcrux, Harry,” Dumbledore said gently. Harry gaped owlishly at him. “Voldemort was never the kind of wizard to attempt to understand magics he didn’t value – house elves, love, loyalty. He took your blood believing it would strengthen him – and it did, of course, it did! It allowed him to be reborn. But in doing so, he took into his body a tiny part of the enchantment that Lily laid upon you when she died for you. His body has kept her sacrifice alive all these years, and while that enchantment survives, so do you!”

Suddenly, Harry was angry. Dumbledore had drilled it into him for twenty years that he had to die, and he’d known that Harry wouldn’t? “Did you know?! All along? In all the years you were teaching me and Hermione?” Harry demanded. “That I wouldn’t die?”

Dumbledore had the grace to look ashamed. “I admit that I suspected as much. Yes. But, I apologize, I could not tell you as much, or the Horcrux may not have been destroyed. You needed to believe you were dying to protect your friends, to make the world a better place in order for the enchantment to take hold.”

Harry pursed his lips, annoyed at Dumbledore’s explanation, but understanding it nevertheless. He watched the creature whimper and tremble. After a long minute, or perhaps seconds – there was no way to measure time in this place – Harry asked, “So, he can be killed now? Once Nagini is destroyed?”

Dumbledore smiled at him again. “Yes, dear boy. He would be merely mortal. Although I cannot promise it.”

“I’ve got to go back, haven’t I?”

“That is up to you.”

“I’ve got a choice?”  
  


“Oh yes.”

Harry glanced again at the creature.

"Do not pity the dead, Harry. Pity the living, and, above all, those who live without love. By returning, you may ensure that fewer souls are maimed, fewer families are torn apart, Voldemort’s terrible regime dismantled, and a new world born free of the terror he wrought. If that seems to you a worthy goal, then we say good-bye for the present.”

Harry nodded and sighed. Leaving this place would not be nearly as terrifying as walking into the Forest had been, but it was warm and light and peaceful here, and he knew that he was heading back into pain and fear of more loss, and fear that Nagini would sustain Voldemort for another twenty years. Still, Harry thought of what he’d left behind. Sirius. Remus. Tonks. Hagrid. The Weasleys. Hermione. Draco. _Draco._ He would see Draco again. He might even have a chance to _be with_ Draco, properly and with abandon.

He stood up, and Dumbledore did the same, and they looked for a long moment into each other’s faces.

“Tell me one last thing. Is this real? Or has this all been happening inside my head?”

Dumbledore beamed at him, even as his form was obscured by the mist that was rapidly becoming formless again.

“Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why should that mean that it is not real?”

++++++++

He was lying facedown on the ground again, the smell of the Forest filling his nostrils. Unlike wherever he had been with Dumbledore, the Forest floor was hard and cold beneath his cheek. The hinge of his glasses, which he was once again wearing and which had been knocked sideways by his fall, were cutting into his temple. His whole body ached; the place where the Killing Curse had hit him throbbed painfully, like a bruise from an iron-clad punch.

Harry remained perfectly still, eyes closed, listening. Where he had expected cheers of triumph and tribulation, Harry instead heard hurried footsteps and hushed whispers.

“My Lord… _my Lord_ …” Bellatrix.

“That will do.” Voldemort.

Harry heard more footsteps, as if several people were backing away from the same spot. Curiosity getting the better of him, Harry opened his eyes by a millimeter. From what he could tell through the slits of his eyes, Voldemort was rising to his feet as the Death Eaters hurried away from him, Bellatrix alone remaining by his side. Even Snape seemed wary, unsure.

Harry closed his eyes again, thinking. Had Voldemort collapsed when the Killing Curse hit Harry? He must have, as he had killed a piece of himself too. Harry wondered if Voldemort realized now the connection between them, or if he was still ignorant of the absolute instability of his own soul.

“My Lord, let me –” Bellatrix again.

“I do not require assistance.” Voldemort. His voice was high and cold. “The boy…is he dead?” Harry thought Voldemort sounded almost scared, as though he might indeed be considering the possibility that all had not gone to plan, that Harry might not truly be dead.

The clearing was completely silent. No one moved, but Harry could feel them all staring at him. It was an uncomfortable and terrifying sensation; he hardly dared to breathe, afraid a finger or eyelid might twitch and give him away.

“You,” Voldemort said, and there was bang and a small yelp. “Examine him. Tell me whether he is dead.”

As his eyes were shut tightly, Harry did not know who had been sent to verify his death, but he lay as still as if he were under a Body-Bind Curse. His heart thundered traitorously in his chest, against the ground.

Soft, almost familiar, hands touched Harry’s face, pulled back an eyelid, crept under his shirt and down to his chest. He knew she could feel life pounding against his ribs. Suddenly, long hair tickled his face; she had bent over, shielding Harry’s face from the others.

_"Is Draco alive? Is he in the castle?”_

With a jolt so great he was afraid he might give himself away, Harry recognized it was Narcissa leaning over him. Her whisper was barely audible, her lips an inch from his ear.

Draco hadn’t retreated to the Forest with the other Death Eaters after Harry left him on the Astronomy Tower, Harry realized. He must be in the Great Hall with the Order, Harry reasoned to himself. _“Yes,”_ Harry breathed, trying his best not to move his lips in case Narcissa’s curtain of hair wasn’t a complete shield from the rest of the Death Eaters.

Narcissa’s fingers contracted on his chest, and her nails pierced him. In the next second, her hand was gone. She had sat up.

“He is dead!” Narcissa called, and the clearing erupted with shouts of triumph.

Through his eyelids, Harry saw bursts of red and silver shoot into the air like fireworks. Hate bristled inside him at their celebration. It was, Harry thought, rude to dance on someone’s grave, especially when their body wasn’t even cold yet. But even as he thought it, he knew that the Order would do the same, if Harry played the rest of his cards right and they managed to kill Nagini, and Voldemort, and dismantle the Death Eater regime. Still, Harry wanted to reveal himself right then, blast them all to Hell in this moment, but he knew he still had work to do, still had a snake to kill before Voldemort could be defeated.

As he feigned death on the ground, Harry understood Narcissa’s lie: The only way Narcissa would be permitted to see her son alive again was as part of the conquering army. She no longer cared whether Voldemort won, whether his terrible reign continued. Maybe she never had. Draco had told him Narcissa wasn’t even a Death Eater, didn’t have a Dark Mark on her arm. Her only loyalty was to her family, maybe even her son.

“You see?” Voldemort screeched over the tumult. “Harry Potter is dead by my hand, and no man alive can threaten me now! This world is mine forever! Watch! _Crucio_!”

Harry had been expecting it, knew his body would not be allowed to remain unsullied, that it had to be humiliated to prove Voldemort’s victory and everlasting reign. He was lifted into the air, and it took all of his determination to not react. There was no pain, however. Harry marveled at this even as he was thrown once, twice, three times into the air. His glasses flew off his face, but he kept himself floppy and lifeless. When he finally fell back to the ground, jeers and shrieks of laughter filled the clearing.

“Now,” Voldemort said, “we go to the castle and quash their little rebellion, and show them what has become of their savior. Who will drag the body? No – Wait –”

Laughter again, a bang, and then Harry felt the ground tremble.

“You carry him,” Voldemort said, and Harry’s blood turned to ice. “He will be nice and visible in your arms, will he not?” Harry knew instinctively whom Voldemort was commanding. “Pick up your little friend, Hagrid. And the glasses – put on the glasses – he must be recognizable –”

Someone – Harry had no idea who – shoved his glasses back on his face with deliberate force; one end of the frames poked him in the eye, but Harry didn’t flinch, determined as he wa to maintain his ruse. When they lifted him up, Hagrid’s hands were exceedingly gentle. Harry could feel Hagrid quivering with enormous sobs, and great tears splashed down on him as Hagrid cradled Harry. Harry wanted so badly to indicate to Hagrid that he was alive, that all was not lost yet, but from his time spent in the Order with Hagrid, Harry knew Hagrid was neither a great tactician nor a great actor, so Harry didn’t dare move a muscle.

“Move,” Voldemort ordered, and Hagrid stumbled forward, forcing his way through the close-growing trees.

Branches caught on Harry’s T-shirt and hair, but he lay still in Hagrid’s arms, his eyes closed and his mouth lolling open in his best impression of a corpse. Around him, the Death Eaters crowed and boasted. Harry marveled at their arrogance and stupidity: No one bothered to check for a pulse in his exposed neck.

They passed through the Forest unimpeded and again Harry wondered where all the creatures were. Sunlight blinded him through his eyelids and he nearly gave himself away by just barely resisting squeezing his eyes shut even tighter. Although it was early morning at the very end of October, the air seemed to be unnaturally chilly. Harry realized that they had come out at a part of the Forest where Dementors stood – floated? – sentinel. Although Harry had never faced an actual Dementor before, he had practiced with Hermione and Dumbledore many times on a boggart. Harry could have easily produced a wandless, wordless Patronus, but he knew he didn’t need it. His survival burned inside him, as good as any Patronus he could cast.

Someone passed by Harry, and Harry knew it was Voldemort because he spoke a moment later.

* * *

Draco had just finished Healing the last of the injured Pomfrey had assigned to him when Voldemort’s magically amplified voice rang shrilly through the Great Hall.

“Harry Potter is dead.” Though he had been expecting it, Draco nearly passed out hearing it said aloud. “He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him.” Draco’s blood boiled at the blatant lies. How had he ever worshipped this man? “We bring you his body as proof that your savior is gone.

“The battle is won. You have lost half your fighters. My Death Eaters outnumber you, and The Boy Who Lived is finished. There must be no more rebellion. Anyone who continues to resist, man, woman, or child, will be slaughtered, as will every member of their family. Come out of the castle now, kneel before me, and you shall be spared. Your parents and children, your brothers and sisters will live and be forgiven, and you will join me in the world and the values we will continue to uphold.”

The Great Hall was deathly silent, and no one moved. Draco looked around at the faces of those around him: some were grief-stricken, whether for friends and family or Harry or both Draco didn’t know, others were petrified, pale with terror. They were right to be afraid, Draco thought; he knew first-hand that Voldemort’s forgiveness was not freely given, that it came at price. He wondered what the price would be for his second defection. Death probably, and he would welcome it, despite Harry’s insistence that he live.

His eyes caught Hermione’s across the Hall. They stared at each other in silent conversation, as though they had known each other their whole lives, and nodded at each other. Together, they crossed the Hall, meeting in the middle, and side-by-side slowly headed for the Entrance Hall. Draco could hear shuffling behind them; others were moving to follow them.

As they passed through the open front doors, Draco’s heart stopped at the sight: Death Eaters – including his parents and aunt – were lined up facing the school, flanking Hagrid, who carried a lifeless Harry in his arms. Hermione gripped his arm tightly, her nails digging into his flesh through his shirt. Voldemort stood a little bit forward and just off to the side of Hagrid, Nagini – who appeared to be unprotected – slithering on the grass at his feet.

“No,” Draco whispered. “No, no, no, no.” He hadn’t known his heart could shatter more than it already had on the Astronomy Tower, but staring at Harry dead and listless, Draco felt his whole body could break with the pain of the loss.

“No!” Hermione sobbed next to him, tears falling in rivulets down her face.

“Harry! HARRY!” Sirius and Lupin cried simultaneously. The screams sounded ripped from their throats, and Draco realized it probably felt to them like they had lost their friend all over again.

Others around them screamed and yelled abuse at the Death Eaters, the fight having not quite left them just yet, or perhaps the fight renewed in the face of Harry’s death.

“SILENCE!” Voldemort demanded. With a flick of his wand and a bang, Voldemort silenced them all, the spell settling heavily on Draco, making him unable to speak. “It is over! Set him down, Hagrid, at my feet, where he belongs!”

Draco watched as Hagrid reverently lowered Harry to the grass.

“You see?” Voldemort sneered, as he paced back and forth beside Harry’s body. “Harry Potter is dead! Do you understand now, deluded ones? He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him!”

“He beat you!” Ron yelled, and Draco felt the charm break. Momentarily shocked at the ease with which Ron had broken through Voldemort’s spell, Draco missed when the Order’s shouts began again and, almost before he realized what had happened, there was another, louder bang, and the silencing spell was on them again, their voices extinguished.

“He was killed while trying to sneak out of the castle grounds,” Voldemort said, relishing in the lie, “killed while trying to save himself –”

Draco snapped. “LIAR!” Draco shouted, breaking through the curse easily, and wild and reckless and broken heart barely beating, Draco charged at Voldemort. Before he could even form the thought of a spell, there was a bang, and Draco was thrown to the ground, his wand flying out of his hand. Draco hit the ground hard, his head knocking against the grass.

“Draco, Draco,” Voldemort _tsk_ ed. “You have once again disappointed the Dark Lord. I had hoped we had stamped your little tantrum out of you. No matter. There are ways the Dark Lord can ensure your loyalty.”

Draco clenched his teeth and, with enormous effort, lifted himself off the ground. For the second time within hours, Draco cared not if the Unbreakable Vow and said, loud and clear, “I will never be loyal to you again! I fight for the Order of the Phoenix now!” Draco resolutely avoided making eye contact with his parents, although he imagined his mother might have shown pride on her face.

The crowd behind him cheered and Draco wondered at Voldemort’s Silencing Charms being unable to keep them quiet; he could feel the force of them, and yet them seemed muted, dulled somehow, as if the spells were reaching them through a barrier, not quite able to attach to them.

“Very well. If that is your choice, Draco, on your head be it.”

Draco froze with panic. Did Voldemort mean to kill him here, in front of his parents, and a crowd of Death Eaters and Order members alike? Before Draco knew what was happening, screams split the air as he was set on fire – except there was no pain. He saw his entire body ablaze, but the flames didn’t burn. It was a strange sensation, to see flames licking his skin but feel nothing, not even a cool lapping, like a kiss from the tongue of a dog.

And then many things happened at once.

Draco heard great roars, loud war cries, and panicked screeches. Dragons flew overheard, spitting fire at the Death Eaters, at the same time as giants stampeded from around the back of the castle, and centaurs rushed out of the Forest, shooting arrows pell-mell at the line of Death Eaters. The _Incendio_ on Draco ended abruptly as Death Eaters scattered in fear, attempting to get out of the line of the dragons’ fire and giants’ gargantuan feet and centaurs’ arrows, and knocked into Voldemort, throwing his spell off-kilter. In the next second, Hermione was shouting, “Draco!” and threw him something silver, with a glittering, rubied handle. In one swift motion, Draco caught the sword of Godric Gryffindor and slashed it through the air, slicing off the great snake’s head with a single stroke. Nobody heard Voldemort’s howl of rage.

Draco watched as Nagini’s severed head spun high into the air and landed five feet away from it’s separated body, which had thudded to the ground at Draco’s feet.

Suddenly, over the cacophony, Hagrid shouted, “HARRY! WHERE’S HARRY?”

Chaos reigned and panic clutched at Draco’s chest. As the Death Eaters scattered every which way, the fire, feet, and arrows of the Order’s reinforcements turned haphazard and frantic, hitting Order members accidentally. Draco hurried to grab his wand where it had landed after he was Disarmed and was buffeted back into the castle as the Order members retreated from the onslaught. With a heart-stopping jolt, Draco realized Voldemort had entered the castle with them, shouting orders at the Death Eaters who had followed him into the castle – including Draco’s parents and aunt – and firing spells at anyone and everyone as be backed himself into the Great Hall. Oddly, the spells appeared to be bouncing off Shield Charms or else miraculously just missing their targets. Still, for good measure, Draco, wildly, threw up his own Shield Charms around various Order members.

As he pushed through the crowd, Draco saw even more reinforcements storming up the front steps: Horace Slughorn, Pomona Sprout, and someone his own age who Draco recognized fleetingly as Neville Longbottom – practically orphaned by his Aunt Bellatrix – at the head of what looked like the families and friends of all the Hogwarts students who had remained to fight for the Order, come to reclaim the school and avenge their children’s forced indoctrination into the Death Eaters. With them was someone who looked suspiciously like Albus Dumbledore, along with the shopkeepers and homeowners of Hogsmeade who had lived and worked for nearly two decades under Voldemort’s rule and who had come to claim their independence. Draco realized everyone who had once either had their wands confiscated or never had wands at all were suddenly armed, wands held tightly in their hands. Draco had no idea where the weapons had come from, but thrilled at this new act of rebellion.

As the Entrance Hall filled to the brim with Order members and their allies, the hinges of the door to the kitchens were blasted apart. The house-elves of Hogwarts – loyal only to the castle itself and evidently thoroughly over Voldemort’s occupation of it – swarmed into the Entrance Hall, screaming and waving carving knives and cleavers. To Draco’s enormous shock, both of his house-elves, Dobby and Kreacher, were at their head, both shouting, “Fight! Fight! Fight for our Masters, Regulus Black and Draco Malfoy! Fight the Dark Lord, in the name of brave Regulus and Draco! Fight!”

Draco goggled at them, stunned beyond belief, completely and thoroughly unaware of anything he had done to earn such honor and loyalty from them, as they hacked and stabbed at the ankles and shins of Death Eaters. Everywhere Draco looked the Death Eaters were folding under the weight of sheer numbers, and his heart soared with pride. Harry had done this. Harry had rallied a rogue and scattered underground rebellion into a full-blown revolution. Draco watched as, around him, Death Eaters were overcome by spells, dragging arrows from wounds, stabbed in the leg by elves, or else simply attempting to escape, the cowards, but couldn’t get free of the Great Hall as the horde continued to flock inside. Long ago, Draco had lost sight of his parents and found he cared very little, even for his mother. His heart was with the Order now, Harry’s friends and family who had so graciously welcomed him, despite the position he had held in the Death Eaters and all he done to oppress them.

Draco pushed himself through into the Great Hall to find Voldemort in the center of it, flinging spells at anyone in his wand’s reach. The Great Hall filled around him, as everyone who was able forced their way inside. Draco took in the scene: Yaxley was slammed to the floor by the Weasley twins; Dolohov screamed as he fell to the floor, hit by a spell by Filius Flitwick; Macnair was thrown across the room by Hagrid, and slid, unconscious to floor; Ron and Neville brought down Fenrir Greyback together; Remus knocked back Severus Snape, his head hitting the edge of one of the tables that had been pushed to the back of the Great Hall and giving a sickening crack; the not-Albus Dumbledore Stunned Rookwood; and Arthur Weasley and another of his sons floored Pius Thicknesse, Voldemort’s puppet Minister all these years. He finally spotted his parents running through the crowd, not even attempting to fight, searching for him; Draco slid further into the throng to avoid being seen. Elsewhere, Voldemort was fighting McGonagall, Slughorn, and Kingsley Shacklebolt, three-on-one, and he had a terrifying hatred in his face as they ducked his spells; his Aunt Bellatrix was fighting Hermione, Tonks, and Sirius all at once like Voldemort, and Draco’s breath caught as a Killing Curse passed just by Hermione’s ear.

Draco charged at them, to join the fight against his aunt, flinging random spells at her as he neared, to distract her from the others. She rounded on him as he drew up next to Hermione, a twisted sneer on her face and a wild glint in her eyes.

“Hello, Auntie. Did I ever tell you what a bitch you are?” Draco had no clue what had possessed him to say it, but Sirius howled with laughter and Draco’s chest soared with elation, exhilaration replacing heartache.

Bellatrix snarled at him, screeching, “You think you have won, little man?! You will never win! The Dark Lord will reign supreme for all eternity!” And then she laughed, maniacal and strange, as she raised her wand at him.

A jet of green light from Sirius’s wand shot under her outstretched arm and hit her squarely in the chest. Bellatrix’s gloating smile froze, and her eyes seemed to bulge as they turned to her cousin: For the tiniest space of time she knew what had happened, and then she toppled. The watching crowd boomed in triumph, and Voldemort roared at the fall of his last, best lieutenant.

Draco watched in horror as Voldemort rounded on the three of them, fury distorting his snake-like features into something inhuman and grotesque. He stalked over to them, wand raised.

Draco didn’t hear the spell Voldemort formed because a voice hollered “ _Protego!”_ , the Shield Charm expanding around them, blocking Voldemort, and Harry appeared, as he shook off a Disillusionment Charm.

Draco’s legs nearly gave way as Hermione again dug her nails into his arm, and screams all around them chorused “Harry!” and “HE’S ALIVE!”.

* * *

Draco and Hermione, who had been battling together to Harry’s sheer and utter delight, had moved towards him, to help or hug him, Harry wasn’t sure. Harry shook his head at them, and they stilled.

To the crowd, which had fallen silent abruptly at his appearance, Harry said loudly, “I don’t want anyone else to try to help.” In the absolute silence, his voice carried like a trumpet call. At the same moment, he and Voldemort began to circle each other, Voldemort’s wand raised accusingly at Harry. Harry, who had been trained his whole life to perform wandless magic, held his hands in front of him, parallel to the ground, ready to pounce. “It’s got to be like this. It's got to be me.”

Voldemort hissed at him and Harry stifled an absurd laugh. “Potter doesn’t mean that. That isn’t how he works, is it? Who are you going to use as a shield today, Potter?”

“Nobody,” Harry said simply. “There are no more Horcruxes. It’s just you and me. Neither can live while the other survives, and one of us is about to leave for good.” The taunt came easy and Harry knew instinctually that it would be he who survived. He had too much to live for to die here, again.

“One of us?” Voldemort jeered, his body taut and strung out, a snake ready to strike its prey. “You think it will be you, do you, the boy who has survived by accident, and because Dumbledore was pulling the strings?”

“Was it an accident when my mother died for me? To save me, to keep me alive?” Harry asked, as they continued to circle each other, Harry’s attention zeroed in on Voldemort. “Accident that all these people have risen up against you, against your terrible regime, and overpowered your Death Eaters? Accident that I didn’t defend myself tonight, and still survived, and returned to fight again, and defeat you?”

“ _Accidents!_ ” Voldemort screeched, his red eyes wide and wild, but still he did not strike. The watching crowd, Draco and Hermione at its head, was perfectly still as if Petrified. Of the hundreds in the Great Hall, nobody seemed to be breathing except himself and Voldemort. “Accident and chance and fact that you hid away for all this time, sniveling behind the skirts of greater men and women, and permitted me to kill them for you!”

“No one else is going die at your command.” Harry’s green eyes stared defiantly into Voldemort’s red ones. “You _can’t_ kill them. Don’t you understand? I was ready to die for them so that no one else would get hurt –”

“But you did not!” Voldemort shrieked, half-insane.

“Yes, but I meant to!” Harry taunted on a wild laugh. “I _meant to_ , and I did for them the same thing my mother did for me. I protected them from you and your minions. Haven’t you noticed how none of your spells are binding? You can’t torture them. You. Can’t. Touch. Them.”

Voldemort stared at him, uncomprehending, but his wand trembled in his hand, and his chest rose and fell rapidly. Harry knew he was infuriating Voldemort, could feel the curse coming, building in the wand pointed at his face.

“You’re done, Riddle,” Harry said, speaking Voldemort’s real name, unafraid and exhilarated. “Your reign is over. You’ve lost this world! It’s ours now!”

Voldemort screamed, white with rage, and Harry was ready for it, the spell already on his lips.

“ _Avada Kedavra!”_

_Protego Maxima!”_

The bang was like a cannon blast, and the golden flames that erupted between them, at the dead center of the circle they had been treading, marked the point where the Killing Curse hit the forcefield. Voldemort fell backwards, arms splayed, the slit of pupils of the scarlet eyes rolling upward. Tom Riddle hit the floor with a mundane finality, his body feeble and shrunken, his wand rolling out of his lifeless hand, the snakelike face vacant and unknowing. Voldemort was dead, killed by his own rebounding curse, and Harry stood, still within his protective bubble, at his enemy’s shell.

One shivering second of silence, the shock of the moment suspended: and then the tumult broke around Harry as the screams and the cheers and the roars of the watchers rent the air. Harry lowered his shield and the first to reach him were Draco and Hermione, their arms wrapped tightly around him, their incomprehensible shouts and sobs that deafened him. Sirius and Lupin and all the Weasleys, Moody, and Kingsley, and Tonks surrounded him, shouting words and congratulations he couldn’t hear, and Hagrid towered over them all, tears dripping down his face. The rest of the crowd milled around them, each wanting to touch The Boy Who Lived, the reason Voldemort’s reign of terror was over at last.

They all wanted to speak with him, touch him, have him share in their mixture of grief and jubilation. But all Harry wanted was a moment of peace with the two people he loved best in the world, both still clinging to him, as though they were afraid to let him go for fear he would disappear.

Eventually, the crowd dispersed, although Hermione and Draco stayed close. Someone – Harry thought maybe Sirius and Remus – moved Voldemort’s body to a chamber off the Great Hall, away from the Order and their casualties. The surviving Death Eaters who had remained in the Hall to watch the fight, including Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, had been taken into custody by Kingsley and were held, shackled, against the far wall, Moody standing guard over them.

While everyone was preoccupied, Harry took to the opportunity to slip away. He grabbed Draco’s and Hermione’s hands in each of his, and led them out into the now empty Entrance Hall and down a corridor where they could have some privacy.

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione said as soon as they came to a stop, throwing her arms around him again.

Harry wrapped his arms around her waist.

When she pulled back, Hermione cupped his face with her hands, and said, “I want to know what happened, but I’m going to give you two some time.”

  
She kissed his cheek and walked away, back to the Great Hall. Harry saw her squeeze Draco’s hand as she passed him.

* * *

They stared at each other in the silence, as Hermione passed out of sight.

Draco only had a second to ponder the awkwardness that had seemed to settle between them before Harry was in his arms, Harry’s arms thrown tight around his neck and Harry’s face nestled against his shoulder. Draco melted into the hug, his arms snaking around Harry’s waist. He buried his face in Harry’s hair, breathing him in. Harry was so alive, Draco let out a broken sob.

“It’s okay. I’m here,” Harry said into his ear, one of his hands petting at Draco’s hair.

Draco didn’t know how long they stood there in each other’s embrace but at some point, Harry turned his face to kiss Draco’s hair, his shoulder, his neck. Draco closed his eyes against the sensation, his heart still bruised from the loss of Harry, not yet quite healed from his return.

Harry pulled away a smidge and Draco opened his eyes to find Harry’s watching him with concern. Harry thumbed away the tear that fell down Draco’s cheek and kissed him. Draco whimpered, pressing deeper immediately, his arms tightening around Harry’s waist to pull them flush against each other. Harry’s hands slid around his neck again, his hands cradling the back of Draco’s head, keeping him there.

They kissed desperately, yet lazily, for what felt like days, and yet no time at all. Eventually, Harry pulled away from Draco, resting their foreheads together.

“I’m so sorry about the Tower,” Harry said, and Draco pulled his head back to look at Harry, startled.

“What?”

“If I had known I was going to survive, I wouldn’t have put you through that. I need you to know that.”

Draco had never thought otherwise but Harry looked so anxious, Draco kissed him again. “I know,” Draco assured when they broke away for the second time. “How _did_ you survive?” Draco had been wondering for nearly an hour now.

“Voldemort was _my_ Horcrux,” Harry explained, not that it did anything other than confuse Draco even further. “Dumbledore said Snape took my blood when I was a baby right after he killed my parents and that’s what Voldemort was reborn with. My mother’s sacrifice was kept alive by Voldemort himself. I couldn’t die as long as he lived. But my death killed the bit of Voldemort that was inside me.”

“When did you see Dumbledore?” Draco asked, getting more confused by the second.

“In my head, when I died.”

Harry said it so matter-of-factly, Draco’s mouth dropped open into a little ‘o’. Harry laughed at him and kissed the shock off his face.

When he pulled back, Harry said, “I want to be alone with you, but I think we have to go back inside.”

An idea formed in Draco’s mind and he fumbled his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out the toy broom. It floated over his hand as he held it out. “Maybe not just yet. I believe I owe you a flight.”

Harry’s grin was dazzling.

* * *

In the weeks and months following the Battle of Hogwarts, the Order took on the enormous task of reinstituting the wizarding society that had existed before Voldemort rose to power. Kingsley was installed as acting Minister for Magic, which Harry was certain would be made permanent sooner rather than later. The surviving Death Eaters were held in Azkaban under watch by Moody and his selected group of guards, the Dementors relocated to a sparsely populated area of Siberia, until the Wizengamot could be restored and they could be tried for war crimes and crimes against humanity.

To his credit, Draco requested he be tried as well – he had committed atrocious acts as the leader of the Muggle Hunting Squad, although not he was the Head in name – but Kingsley wouldn’t hear of it, insisting that Draco’s defection saved countless lives and the information he passed on to them had been invaluable to their successful revolution, as had been his part in the fight.

Harry knew Draco wasn’t satisfied with Kingsley’s response and convinced Kingsley to allow Draco to head the new Reunification and Reclamation Division of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, which had been established to reunify families torn apart by Voldemort’s regime and to assist Muggles and shopkeepers in both Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade Village, as well as London and other towns and cities up and down Britain, with reclaiming their businesses, their homes, and their lives that had been hijacked by Death Eaters.

In his new position, Draco made it his priority to personally outfit with a wand every witch or wizard either stripped of the one they had obtained at eleven or who had never had one at all. Although they were both highly proficient in wandless magic, Harry and Hermione were the first ones Draco escorted to Ollivander’s in Diagon Alley; Harry walked out of the shop with a holly and phoenix feather core wand, Hermione with a vine and dragon heartstring core wand. All of the Weasley children – except Bill who had been in his first year at Hogwarts when Voldemort rose to power – followed.

Harry didn’t know if Draco would ever believe he had atoned for the crimes he committed under Voldemort, but he hoped that the work he was doing in the new world would at least temper his tendency toward self-loathing.

For his part, Harry, along with Hermione, Neville Longbottom, Remus, and Sirius, headed the War Orphan Commission, which worked tirelessly to find children and teenagers who had been orphaned by atrocities perpetrated by the Death Eaters, and which established orphanages and boarding homes in which to place them. Although not strictly orphans, the Commission also assisted those families that had been displaced during Voldemort’s reign, helping to either rebuild or repair destroyed or requisitioned homes, or else relocate them. The Weasleys reclaimed their home, The Burrow; Hermione chose to repair their childhood home. Although initially seized by the Order, Malfoy Manor had been returned to Draco. In a fit of sentimentality, Draco insisted that the two of them live there and mold its reputation into something good and decent. 

Hogwarts was closed for the rest of the school year, both to allow repairs to be made to the extensive damage done to the castle and to give the children the opportunity to heal from their indoctrination. Minerva McGonagall was appointed the new Headmistress and personally oversaw the repairs. When the school reopened the following September, it was to a system of sorting and re-sorting each year. In a ten-minute pitch to Kingsley, the Wizengamot, and McGonagall, Draco insisted that it had been blood purity claptrap perpetuated by the centuries-old divisions of House sorting that had led to Voldemort’s regime; if students – children – were each “sorted” according to their personalities and achievements as they grew and learned and their views of the world changed over time, then they would be better equipped to recognize prejudices that could become dangerous, or else not acquire those prejudices at all. He attested from personal experience that being forced to believe in one single-minded ideal without having any other perspectives against which to measure it was damaging to both the child and the world. Harry had never been prouder in his life.

In a similar vein, Harry and Hermione argued fiercely for the Statute of Secrecy to be repealed. As they had been terrorized by Voldemort for two decades, Muggles were already well aware of the existence of wizardkind; they couldn’t very well Obliviate the entire population of Britain’s Muggles. Besides, as Draco argued about the Hogwarts houses, if wizards and Muggles co-existed in the same spaces and interacted and intermingled on a more daily basis, there would be less fear and more understanding on both sides. That could only serve to build a better Muggle-Wizard unified society. To Harry’s surprise, Kingsley and the new Wizengamot agreed, and the Statute of Secrecy was repealed, effective May 1, 2002.

When they weren’t working, they flew. At first, they shared a broom, Harry behind Draco, arms tight around Draco’s waist. But Harry wanted to learn to fly himself, and within an hour of his first lesson, Harry was flying on his own, a natural in the skies. The next day, Draco gifted Harry his own broomstick, the newest Firebolt model, the first to be released in the new post-Voldemort world. They flew side-by-side over the Manor grounds, sometimes racing, sometimes just enjoying the fresh air high above their home, and sometimes accompanied by Hyperion. Only once did Harry fly on Hyperion’s back; as soon as they were back on the ground, Harry vowed never to do it again. Draco laughed at him, his face alight with fondness and unadulterated love.

As life settled into a routine, Harry encouraged Draco to accompany him on visits to Grimmauld Place. It had become a sort of meeting place for various Order members to convene and socialize, particularly in the winter months when no one wanted to trek through Hogsmeade to go to a pub. Draco was still a bit gun-shy about casually associating with Order members, even though they had all vouched for him during the rebuilding. But Tonks and Sirius were his cousins, stolen from him by his parents and his aunt for their “inferior blood status” and “Muggle-leaning tendencies”, respectively, and Harry thought it would be nice for Draco to reconnect with them outside the arena of a revolution, especially since Lucius was serving a life sentence in Azkaban and Narcissa was under self-imposed house arrest in their townhouse in France, with no plans to reemerge into society. Although Draco visited with her once a week, he often came home closed off and with a short fuse, needing time alone in the air before he would be amenable to any kind of talking.

Draco was far more willing to socialize with Ron, Hermione, and Neville Longbottom, with whom Harry had gotten close as they worked together on the War Orphan Commission. The five of them often spent evenings together after work and on weekends at the Manor, playing both Muggle and Wizarding games and entertaining each other with increasingly wild fantasies about what their lives might have been like in a world not overrun with Death Eaters. Although they steered cleared of outright discussing their actual lives under Voldemort’s regime, the game provided them an outlet with which to cope with their traumas.

When their post-war work thinned to the point of obsolescence, although Harry and Ron had not attended Hogwarts, and Draco had attended Voldemort’s Hogwarts, Harry, Ron, and Draco, along with Tonks, were part of the first class of Aurors in the newly reinstated Auror Department within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Alastor Moody at the Head. Although the majority of former Death Eaters had been rounded up and were serving time in Azkaban, it was the Aurors’ jobs to mete out any stragglers and squash any future potential Death Eater upstarts. Neville discovered a love of all things magical and Muggle plants and was appointed as Pomona Sprout’s assistant Herbology Professor. Hagrid and Remus both joined him at Hogwarts, Hagrid as Care of Magical Creatures Professor and Remus as Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor. Hermione attended both Muggle and Wizarding Law School, working diligently to reform both societies to be equal and just in their laws.

It was a work in progress to rebuild and restructure their new society, but all was well.

**Author's Note:**

> Sincerest apologies to Molly Weasley and Neville Longbottom for stealing their moments of glory from them. xx


End file.
